


Have At It

by Leryline



Series: Three's a Crowd [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Oikawa Tooru, Breeding, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, FTM Oikawa Tooru, Forgive Me, Frottage, Grinding, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Squirting, Train Sex, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, facesitting, i am so disgusting!!! holy shit, iwaoi are good friends, oikawa rides ushi's face into the sunset god bless, sort of???, this is so disgusting im so sorry, this is the most explicit porn i have ever written, ushioi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leryline/pseuds/Leryline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a handful of torn bandages and a missing binder. It all ended with Oikawa trembling on the floor of Ushijima Wakatoshi's living room, as sensitive as an open nerve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I am very interested in three things:  
> 1\. ushioi  
> 2\. vaginas  
> 3\. impregnation (or like……..the implication of it. It’s a fetish. I admit it.)
> 
> and thus, this deplorable fic came into being. It’s the first time I’ve written explicit, uninhibited porn in a while so I apologise if I seem a little out of touch.
> 
> if you think I’m morally pure then you must be new. Welcome to the Hole of Filth™. Anyway – have at it, you filthy sinners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **UPDATE:** I made a few ammendments to this fic concerning Oikawa's use of hormones - in the updated version he isn't taking any hormones, since (as was pointed out to me) you can only get hormones when you're above eighteen and it would severely impact Oikawa's chances of getting pregnant, which y'know.... kind of goes against the point a little bit :')

Oikawa can’t breathe.

His chest heaves with effort as he _tries_ , but trying doesn’t do much good, not when his lungs feel as though they’re about to collapse in his chest and like his heart is about to stop beating. He clutches at the front of his jersey, gasping for the air his body refuses to take in, and struggles to tear it over his head.

It’s not the first time this has happened, not by a long shot. He’s just lucky he’s alone in the locker room; usually he’d wait until they were empty, or until he was in the company of his teammates, and had they been full when _this_ had happened he isn’t sure what he would have done or where he would have gone. He wrestles with his shirt, the bandages wrapped beneath his arms cutting painfully into the skin, finally managing to rid himself of it and fling it to the floor. He sets about with shaking fingers to try and unwind the suffocating bandages; his chest feels like it’s about to cave in. His fingers are shaking too badly as he fumbles with the knots, and he misses time and time again. No – he shouldn’t have knotted them so tightly (he shouldn’t have knotted them at _all_ ), but sports isn’t forgiving for neatly-tucked bandages, and Oikawa had to make do.

“Shit,” he hisses to himself. _I need to calm down. Calm down and breathe._ He’d only just walked off the court – Aobajōsai had only just lost to Shiratorizawa in yet another training camp practice match, and while their defeat is a familiar thing by now, Oikawa’s wound is still very raw. They haven’t won a single match yet and he wants to lament his loss; his emotions become clouded, his grief and light-headedness forming a dangerous concoction that threatens to drag him into unconsciousness. Certainly, it was only a training camp and _nothing_ like an official competition, but Oikawa has never liked to come second best, and he’d always been a rather sore loser.

“Oikawa, what are you doing?”

Oikawa’s head snaps up, gaze darting towards the door – at first he’d thought it was Iwaizumi and his heart had leapt in relief. But when he sees who it is his blood runs cold as ice in his veins and he finds himself crossing his arms defensively across his chest, spine arched as he curls in on himself. That certainly doesn’t help his predicament.

“Get out, Ushiwaka-chan,” he spits, back arched and bristling like a cat. But Ushijima does not leave; he merely tilts his head owlishly to the side, eyes inquiring, and Oikawa has to supress a shiver as Ushijima’s gaze roams over his body. He holds himself tighter and raises his voice. “Get out!”

Ushijima doesn’t so much as dignify him with a response. Instead he approaches Oikawa, hands held palms-out in a gesture of peace; it’s as though he’s approaching a frightened animal, a deer in the headlights. Oikawa feels like an animal at the end of a gun, that’s for sure, but he refuses to back down, and stands his ground squarely. His bandages aren’t hidden – Ushijima knows he doesn’t have an injury, and while Ushijima Wakatoshi may be one of the most incredibly dense people Oikawa has the misfortune of knowing, he’s not completely stupid. He _knows_ why those bandages are there, and suddenly the horrific revelation rises to Oikawa’s mind – Ushijima could tell. He could tell anybody and Oikawa’s reputation would be flushed down the drain. He’d be branded as a transvestite, a _pervert_ , his career would be over, he’d never be able to face his team again –

“You oughtn’t bind with those.” His voice is soft and surprisingly gentle. “It’s bad for your lungs.”

Oikawa looks up and blinks. It takes a few (rather long) moments for Ushijima’s words to register, and when they do Oikawa’s face eases out into a disbelieving sneer. Ushijima is close to him now, hands still raised though turned slightly to the sides, as though he’ll make to support the setter if needed.

“What would you know?”

Again, Ushijima tilts his head. “You know it is bad for you, Oikawa.”

Oikawa’s face flushes deep and hot with embarrassment. He turns his face away, shifting his arms closer together. His voice is a mumble, barely audible when he speaks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t – I can’t take them _off_.”

Ushijima’s hands shift and Oikawa flinches slightly. Ushijima pauses, then, his eyes steady on Oikawa’s face.

“May I?”

Oikawa glares at him incredulously. He wants to say no, to kick Ushijima’s balls back up into his body, but he _can’t_ , because he can’t breathe and it hurts and he just wants this all to be over. He still hates him with ever fibre of his body, but Oikawa is vulnerable and sore and in pain and the only thing that could help him at this point is Ushijima. They’re alone – nobody is here to see, and for some reason or another, Oikawa gets the feeling Ushijima wouldn’t tell a soul. Reluctantly, he unfolds his arms and reveals the slight, painful swell of his chest, the skin red and chafing where the bandages drew too tight. Ushijima locates the knot quickly and works at it with his fingernails, a little crease forming between his furrowed brows.

The spiker’s hands are brown and rough and large, much larger than Oikawa’s. In fact they really are nothing alike – their callouses are all in different places, and Ushijima’s fingers are thick and strong where Oikawa’s are slender and flexible. It’s oddly calming to trace his eyes over the rise of tendons and veins beneath Ushijima’s skin, to note the redness of his palms from the heat of the court. His musings are cut off rather suddenly when Ushijima gives up on the knot.

“Excuse me,” Ushijima mumbles.

“What are you say–,” Oikawa is cut off as Ushijima takes the bandage in his hands and yanks it, tearing the material in half with a loud rip that fills the locker room and leaves Oikawa standing in a stunned silence. But he can _breathe_ again, relief blossoming up his spine and throughout his chest; Ushijima unravels the bandages from around his chest and Oikawa gulps down air like water, his lips parted in deep, thirsty gasps. His head fizzes a little bit and a hand reaches out to take hold of Ushijima’s bicep – it’s merely a reflex, he tells himself, to stop himself from falling over as the blood begins to rush again.

Oikawa is remarkably unperturbed at the notion of his own nakedness, especially in the sole company of Ushijima Wakatoshi, his _sworn rival_. He can tell Ushijima’s eyes are on him, particularly on _that_ part of him, but somehow it isn’t creepy, and Oikawa – perhaps for the first time in his life – doesn’t feel the need to cover himself. As he gathers his wits about him he sees Ushijima’s expression as one of interest rather than perverted curiosity.

“Don’t stare,” Oikawa snips at him anyway, taking the jersey Ushijima offers and pulling it over his head and down over his chest, grazing his nipples ever so slightly so they harden beneath the material. The air and the freedom of his body is delicious, but Oikawa still feels out of place looking down at the – albeit shallow – swell of his torso, and he looks away quickly. They stand in silence, neither of them willing to speak but neither of them willing to leave. Not that they’d ever admit it.

Ushijima knows, now, and Oikawa is verging on panic. That had been the very first time Ushijima had touched him so closely and Oikawa is more shocked at the lack of repulsion he feels – the lack of reservation. Perhaps it’s his passion… Ushijima has never inspired anything particularly _reserved_ in Oikawa anyway. Oikawa’s panic is thus quelled by something he can’t quite put his finger on; it acts as a dam against the worry he knows he should feel, the anxiety and the loathing he’s grown so used to over the years. He suspects it has something to do with the way Ushijima stands as unconcerned and as solid as a tree, firm and real beneath the setter’s hand. _An anchor_ , Oikawa thinks vaguely, then shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He shouldn’t think of Ushijima so familiarly. After all, they’re still enemies, no matter what reaction Ushijima might have the capability of eliciting from him.

 _Oh… he smells good._ Oikawa surreptitiously leans forwards and inhales, the sweetness of the air mixing with Ushijima’s distinct smell: musky and heady yet undeniably _clean_ , even despite the fact he’d walked off court not ten minutes ago. The thought rises before Oikawa can stop it; he wants _more_ of whatever that is. His hand tightens slightly on Ushijima’s arm and suddenly they find themselves very, very close.

“Oikawa –,” Ushijima begins, his voice a low rumble in his chest. Far-off thunder, it reverberates through each bone in Oikawa’s body, and he lets out a shaky breath at the sound of it; all he wants to do is to curl in closer to the sound. His face is close to the hard line of Ushijima’s collarbone – even though Oikawa is still rather pissed off (see: absolutely pissed off) about the game they’d just had, he feels intoxicated, and definitely not in his right mind. The broad, warm palm of Ushijima’s hand settles at his hip and for a moment they’re suspended in limbo, transformed into completely different and unrecognisable people.

“Oikawa, there you – oh.” Iwaizumi throws open the door to the locker room and the two jump apart, Oikawa reflexively crossing his arms over his chest; he relaxes a little when he sees who the intruder is. Iwaizumi, realising he’s interrupted something, looks between them and spares Ushijima a fleeting glare before turning his attention to focus on Oikawa. “You okay? I was looking for you every…where…” Iwaizumi’s voice trails off as he sees the line of bandages leading over the floor from Oikawa’s feet to Ushijima’s clenched fist, very obviously removed by force if the tattered end is anything to go by. Oikawa can almost feel the rage building as Iwaizumi jumps to the inevitable conclusion.

“Iwa-chan, come on, I’ll fill you in later.” Oikawa punches Iwaizumi’s arm lightly as a distraction, which seems to cool the other boy down enough for him to nod. “You go,” Oikawa continues, giving Iwaizumi a little push in the direction of the door. “I’ll be out in a sec, ‘kay? Just let me grab my bag.”

“Whatever, just don’t make me late for dinner again, jackass.” Iwaizumi glances quickly at Ushijima through narrowed eyes before making his way back out of the room, hands crammed deep into his pockets and shoulders set rigidly.

Ushijima seems completely unshaken. He wraps the bandage around his knuckles, tucking it neatly into his pocket. “You are not to wear these again, and certainly not while exercising. Is that understood?”

Oikawa shivers at the low, authoritative tone of his voice, but he’s still angry, especially at being told what to do. “Right. Since when were you the authority on what I do and don’t do with my own body, Ushiwaka-chan? Since you seem to be some kind of _expert_ now?”

“There will be trouble if you hurt yourself. You ran too close to injury today.”

“Why do you care?” Oikawa spits back. Ushijima blinks at him.

“The only reason I bothered with this camp was because of you.”

Oikawa stares at him, tongue swelling in his mouth. Is Ushijima making fun of him? No – Ushijima’s face is entirely genuine. Oikawa grimaces and shoulders past Ushijima, picking up his gym bag and hugging it tightly to his chest. As he pushes open the door he pauses, turning to fix Ushijima with a glare. “You piss me off, you know that? Those were the only things I had, and now what am I supposed to do? Shit.” He says the last part to himself. _I’ll have to figure something out with Iwa-chan. Or the staff. Fuck._ Without so much as a backwards glance he leaves the bathrooms, heading glumly back to the dorms.

 

Iwaizumi is waiting for him.

The room is wide and low-ceilinged with futons laid out from one end of the room to the other. Iwaizumi is the only person there, the others either having taken to the showers or gone to dinner. The spiker’s eyes follow Oikawa as he puts down his bag, going to fling himself down onto his own futon besides Iwaizumi’s.

“So are you gonna tell me what happened?” Iwaizumi asks after Oikawa says nothing, lying prone on his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow. When Iwaizumi speaks, though, Oikawa turns his face, his expression crumpled in discontent.

“I… the bandages were too tight. He helped me take them off. That’s it.”

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. “Bandages? Oikawa, we’ve been through this, they’re –,”

“Dangerous, yeah, I know,” Oikawa finishes impatiently, rocking up into a sitting position. Iwaizumi’s eyes dart down to his chest and, noticing the swell, he frowns.

“Don’t you have a binder? I remember you ordering one. And getting it, for that matter.”

Oikawa shrugs noncommittally, looking away and pointedly avoiding the question.

“Tōru, answer me.”

“No,” Oikawa says. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just sit out until I can get something else. I’ll talk to the coach about it, I guess.” He grins, then, taking Iwaizumi’s face in his hands and squishing his cheeks together. “Now, now, Iwa-chan, don’t get too worried! You might exhaust your head-muscle.”

Iwaizumi swats at him, but he laughs as well, and the tension dissipates. “C’mon, asshole. Let’s go eat. I’m _starving_.”

 

He sees Ushijima across the dining hall.

Oikawa watches him when he’s sure Ushijima isn’t looking, brow furrowed in a little frown as he shovels rice into his mouth. Iwaizumi, quickly connecting the dots, scoffs at him. “You sure he didn’t do anything?”

“He helped me and that’s it,” Oikawa replies through a mouthful of food. “God, I fucking hate him. He’s stupid _and_ a good Samaritan! What a loser.” His frown deepens and Iwaizumi laughs again, warranting a whack on the arm.

When Oikawa glances back at Ushijima he sees him looking in his direction and quickly pretends to be busy with something (he doesn’t know what, he doesn’t _care_ what – it’s the illusion that matters). After a few moments he peeks up from under his lashes, his body sighing in relief to see that Ushijima’s attention had been drawn by his own setter.

Oikawa watches him eat – he watches the way his lips wrap around his chopsticks, the way his jaw flexes as he chews. His mind grows a little hazy at the sight of the ace’s fingers so expertly handling his utensils; Oikawa had always pegged him as stupid and clumsy, but now he sees that despite Ushijima’s brute power his fingers still have the ability to perform delicately.

He doesn’t mean to think of those fingers doing _other_ things, of going other places, of those rough fingers touching and probing and squeezing. From those fingers Oikawa’s thoughts turn to the mouth and the jaw, imagining what Ushijima’s tongue must be like and how that strong, defined jawline would look thrust between his legs –

“You’re staring,” Iwaizumi interrupts amusedly, and all of a sudden Oikawa realises that he’s been caught – Ushijima is looking right at him, eyes like a hawk. Oikawa sucks in a gasp and averts his gaze quickly.

“Look, I just never thought he could be nice, okay? I’m just _surprised._ ”

Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah, of course.” He doesn’t believe a word of it but he figures it’s best to let it go – he’ll be able to pull the rinse out of this one for _years._

Dinner finishes up without further incident. The teams excuse themselves, one of the groups from out of town being assigned to clean up duties. Oikawa walks with his hands in his pockets, whistling leisurely as he walks along amidst his team.

“I’m beat,” Matsukawa says drowsily from behind him, his long spidery hand reaching beneath the hem of his shirt to scratch at his navel; Oikawa then realises just how tired he is, too. It had been an exhausting day of constant matches and drills and he stifled a yawn, only just.

“Me too. Let’s get back quickly.”

“You’re gonna be okay, right?” Iwaizumi asks him once they’re back in their own room, the team milling about as they get ready to sleep.

“Iwa-chan, don’t worry! I already have a mother, you know, I don’t need another one.” He smiles thinly, gracefully, but only for a moment before Iwaizumi hits him upside the head. “Seriously, though, it’ll be fine.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t appear satisfied, but he doesn’t show it; instead he chooses to bunker down into his futon. Hanamaki announces he’s turning out the lights and the room is suddenly plunged into darkness.

Oikawa lies on his back, listening as his teammates fall into an exhausted sleep one by one. Their breathing and faint snoring fill the room and while Oikawa knows he ought to be asleep by now, he just _can’t_. He keeps remembering Ushijima being so close to him, the smell of him and the sight of his skin glistening with sweat; he remembers those hands, the fingers and their clean, trimmed nails; Oikawa remembers the veins and tendons wrapping around the back of Ushijima’s hand and wonders if he’s got veins as thick wrapped around other parts of him as well. He shivers at the thought, rolling onto his side and hugging himself.

He _hates_ Ushijima – or, at least, his mind does. His body seems to have its own opinion, though, if the sudden heat blooming in Oikawa’s solar plexus is any indication. He’s had moods like this before, though often for no reason at all.

This time he isn’t sure it’s going to be enough.

He can’t ask Iwaizumi – they’re best friends, sure, but it would be awkward that way. He loves Iwaizumi, he really does… just not _that_ way. Oikawa pushes his face into his pillow and sighs, shifting around uncomfortably and clenching his thighs together. He can’t take care of it here, not in a room full of sleeping people – thinking of it doesn’t help, though, and he feels a distinct, needy throb between his legs.

Oikawa gingerly gets to his feet, his legs embarrassingly weak; each step is a little bit of friction he doesn’t need, Ushijima’s fingers and form overstuffing his mind and making him hot, _too_ hot. He feels his way blindly towards the bathroom, praying that it’s empty.

God – why is this happening? Why can’t he think of someone else, _anybody_ else that _isn’t_ Ushijima Wakatoshi? Grumbling, Oikawa pushes open the door to the bathroom that connects to the locker rooms, heading to a stall and shutting the door. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, spreading his legs and sliding a shaking hand down between his thighs. Just the littlest touch has him shivering, and a little pressure over his clit makes him gasp. He begins to rub a little faster, his flesh so sensitive that he suspects he could cum in minutes –

He hears the door swing open and the sound of heavy footsteps. He freezes, cursing his luck, and tries to remain as silent as he can. He can hear someone using the toilets, then a flush and the sound of the tap running. When he’s certain the person has gone he peeks out, opening the door but a crack –

“What are you doing?”

The door is torn from his grasp and opened and he’s pulled out into the open by a large, strong hand wrapped around his arm. Angrily, he tears himself free, standing in a huff and looking up at his assailant.

“Oh… Ushiwaka-chan. What are you doing creeping around so late at night?” Oikawa sneers as his eyes adjust to the darkness. Ushijima reaches out, hitting the lights, which flicker on and have Oikawa squinting against the sudden glare.

“I could ask the same of you,” Ushijima replies, and the air crackles with tension between them.

There’s something about him – Oikawa is tall, certainly, but Ushijima is taller; not only that, but he’s much broader than Oikawa, his shoulders reminiscent of mountain ranges and his body solid and hard and warm. Oikawa is caught between that body and the wall of the locker room, Ushijima’s face tantalisingly close to his. So close, in fact, that he can see the little flecks of olive green in Ushijima’s gold irises, and the way his pupils dilate ever so slightly; he can see each crease in the ace’s lower lip, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the delicate wisps of hair near his ear…

Oikawa knows he’ll hate himself for it later.

He fists his hands in the front of Ushijima’s shirt, dragging him down to crush their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Ushijima wastes no time forcing his tongue past Oikawa’s teeth, pushing the setter’s own tongue further back into his mouth as he moans, dutifully sucking the appendage into his mouth and letting his teeth graze over it. It’s obscene, really, with Oikawa practically fellating Ushijima’s tongue. It’s also obscene how not a few minutes ago Oikawa was vowing to kill him.

Ushijima’s huge hands plunge up under the setter’s shirt, curling around the line of his waist and pulling him close so their bodies are flush against each other. Oikawa gasps, feeling Ushijima’s thigh bully its way between his legs. He can’t stop himself from grinding down against it, his briefs growing sticky as his stomach churns. His heartbeat pulses loudly in his ears and throbs between his legs, his mind running away with ideas about what secrets could be nestled between Ushijima Wakatoshi’s legs.

“If you don’t fuck me _right now_ I’ll never forgive you,” Oikawa snarls, biting down hard on Ushijima’s earlobe; the ace jerks against him at the pain, and his cock jumps in his pants as Oikawa rolls his hips to meet the other’s. “This is all your fault, so you’d better take responsibility.”

“Turn around, bend over.”

Oikawa doesn’t want to tear himself away from Ushijima, from his kisses, out of those strong arms – but he does, because he knows that the reward will be so much greater. He braces his hands on the wall, bowing his back and sticking out his ass clad only in briefs, a dark stain spreading over the material from where he’d begun to grow wet. Ushijima rumbles in satisfaction from behind him, one hand pushing down Oikawa’s briefs and the other pulling down his own trousers to release his thick, magnificent cock from its confines. Oikawa glances back over his shoulder and his whole body shivers, from his scalp right to his toes, at the sight of it. It’s fat and heavy and _huge_ , wrapped with dark veins and a deliciously meaty foreskin that Oikawa suddenly very much wants in his mouth. He pushes his ass out more, spreading his thighs and whining, practically humping the air in desperation.

“Condom,” Ushijima breathes hoarsely, his cock straining and his face crumpled in desperation; after all, Oikawa’s cunt is pink and glistening and _open_ , right in front of him, clutching at air and gaping for something to fill it. He doesn’t want to wait, and if he wasn’t so disciplined in the first place he definitely wouldn’t have been able to.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Oikawa whines. “Hurry up and fuck me, please, you _need t_ –,” Oikawa breaks off with a shuddering gasp as Ushijima places the head of his cock to Oikawa’s entrance and pushes, sliding his slick, fat cock into him in one stroke. The ace’s fingers are bruising against his hips, holding him in place as he tries to stuff in a few more inches. The head of his cock forces its way past the ridge of Oikawa’s hymen, stretching it out, soon hitting the hard line of the setter’s cervix. The sound Oikawa makes when Ushijima’s cock head kisses his cervix is barely human; it’s low, trembling and wanting.

Ushijima himself is curled over Oikawa’s body, trying his best to swallow down the immediate urge to cum. Oikawa’s walls clench tight and hot and hungry around him, drawing perspiration to the surface of his skin and causing each muscle in his body to tighten.

“Amazing,” Ushijima manages to push out between clenched teeth, his eyes riveted on where their bodies are joined as he pulls out. The shaft of his cock is slick with Oikawa’s juices, those succulent folds glowing and pink and clinging to his cock as though they don’t want to let him go. He pulls out just until the head rests inside Oikawa’s cunt, and then he slams back in, right to the base. His balls slap unforgivingly against Oikawa’s engorged clit and the setter shudders again, humping his hips back impatiently.

“Fuck me, fuck me, God, my pussy needs you,” Oikawa gasps. His knees are shaking already, threatening to give out from underneath him; he suspects he would have already fallen had it not been for Ushijima’s hands elevating his hips.

“It doesn’t want to let me go,” Ushijima snarls, body curling over Oikawa’s as he begins to pick up his pace. “Your cunt is so greedy, Tōru.”

Oikawa whines and spreads his legs further, allowing Ushijima’s cock to pound even deeper into him, splitting apart the sensitive flesh of his pussy and hammering against his womb, pushing time and time again over the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled deep inside him, just behind his pubic bone. He’s never heard Ushijima speak like this – he’d never even expected Ushijima _could_ speak like this. But God, is he glad.

The locker room fills with the obscene sounds: Oikawa’s moaning, the slapping of skin on skin, the squelch and squish of Oikawa’s cunt as Ushijima plunges into it. The ace bites down hard into Oikawa’s shoulder, his hands leaving the setter’s hips and moving instead to crawl up his chest, taking two swollen nipples between his fingers and rolling them.

“F-fuck, Ushiwaka, n-not – _ahn_ ,” Oikawa, despite his protest, pushes his chest further into Ushijima’s large, rough hands. He feels smothered, suffocated by Ushijima, so surrounded by his scent and his warmth. He’s been invaded by him. He loves it.

Ushijima tugs hard on the setter’s tits, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh. As he does, Oikawa’s pussy constricts around him and he groans, huffing into the nape of Oikawa’s neck.

“I need you to cum in me,” Oikawa whispers deliriously, his face red and slick with spit and cum. “Cum in me, please –,”

“It’s too dangerous,” Ushijima replies with a grunt, though the thought of releasing his raw cum inside Oikawa makes his cock swell even more. “You could get pregnant.”

“Don’t care,” Oikawa pants. The thought hovers between them: Oikawa, swollen with Ushijima’s child, dripping and wet and wanting. A betrayal to his team, a betrayal to himself – but he’d be listening to what his body wants, and if his cunt’s greedy clinging is anything to go by, his body wants Ushijima’s cum, even if that means getting his babies too. Oikawa’s pussy seems to swell even more at the thought, his juices dripping down to the tiled floor as he thrusts his hips back to meet Ushijima’s bruising thrusts.

“…should put a baby in you,” Ushijims snarls, the thought making him almost feral, bringing him back to his most primal instincts. “Should fuck my baby into you… I want to see you swollen for me, fat with my child…” Then Oikawa would be _his_ , solely and completely, in body and mind and soul. He begins to fuck into the setter even more brutally, his hand dropping to Oikawa’s hips and working furiously at Oikawa’s swollen, raw clit. At the new touch Oikawa’s back bows and he shrieks, the sound muffled only by the fingers Ushijima forces into his mouth.

“Do it,” Oikawa slurs around the ace’s fingers as he sucks at them, drooling around them as though they’re cocks. Ushijima’s thick fingers probe to the back of Oikawa’s tongue, taking it between them and rubbing it; Oikawa’s eyes fill with overwhelmed tears and he shuts them, giving himself over completely to his pleasure. “Give me your babies, do it – oh – I’m so close, Ushiwaka –,”

“Cum,” Ushijima breathes hot in his ear, teeth closing down on the delicate whorl. “Squirt all over my cock. Show me how much you love it.”

Oikawa cries out against Ushijima’s fingers, his hips humping wildly up and down Ushijima’s cock. His body forces itself as far back as it can, bringing as much of Ushijima’s birth inside as possible. His thighs shake violently, one foot lifting off the floor completely as his orgasm wracks through him, eyes flickering back into his skull. Drool dribbles down his chin, landing in fat drops on the floor as he slurps at the fingers in his mouth between moans; he’s dripping, his cunt gushing around the delicious stretch, sucking Ushijima’s cock in as far as he can.

Ushijima grits his teeth hard, his thrusts growing erratic and messy as he climbs quickly towards his climax. He cums with thunder rolling through his skull, burying himself in the wet mushy heat of Oikawa’s cunt, his balls tightening as he releases load after load after load as deep inside Oikawa as he can. His thumb, moving in trembling circles over Oikawa’s clit, sends the setter into a twitching, over-stimulated mess. His fingers drop from Oikawa’s mouth, slick and dripping, and together they sink to the floor in a sweaty, exhausted mess.

They stay like that for a while, just breathing – Oikawa slumps against Ushijima’s shoulder, his head lolling against it, heart pounding in his throat. He can feel Ushijima’s cum gurgling inside him and some of it dribbles out, making the tiles slippery beneath his thighs.

“Oh,” Oikawa begins giddily as he realises that they’d just done something very dangerous. Nausea rises in his throat, bile bitter on the back of his tongue as fear grips him. “Shit.”

Ushijima’s hands are on him, steadying him and keeping him grounded as he tries to shakily rise to his feet.

“If I get pregnant I’ll gut you,” Oikawa threatens in a hiss. His legs refuse to work – Ushijima had turned them to jelly. He’d considered going on birth control, sure, but when he’d tried a few years ago his body didn’t like it at all. He tries to breathe deeply; somehow he’s a little confident that he’s not pregnant.

“Get off me,” Oikawa snaps when Ushijima doesn’t let go of him; now his arousal has been somewhat sated all he wants to do is to _leave_ , to go back to his room and hide in his futon for the rest of his life. But Ushijima, still, doesn’t let him go, and instead wrestles him onto his back and slides down between the setter’s thighs. “What are you – _oh –,”_ Oikawa gasps loudly as Ushijima’s firm mouth grazes over his pubic hair, down over his still-swollen clit. His tongue dips between Oikawa’s dripping folds, skirting around the fleshy hole, tasting the mix of Oikawa and his own fluids. The setter shivers violently, his hands reflexively flying down to fist in Ushijima’s hair as the ace hooks Oikawa’s lean legs over his shoulders for better access.

Ushijima’s tongue is everything Oikawa dreamed it would be. It’s broad and strong and flexible as it teases around him; Ushijima sucks at Oikawa’s clit and grazes his teeth over the folds, over the hood, over the swollen labia, sucking the flesh into his mouth until it’s red and flushed and sopping.

“God, please,” Oikawa sobs, grinding his hips down against Ushijima’s mouth. “Your tongue, need your tongue –,”

Ushijima’s fat tongue forces its way inside him, writhing and probing against all the right places. His thighs quiver uncontrollably and his climax is violent, causing his body to curl and flex, pushing Ushijima’s face further between his thighs as he cums, fluids flowing freely over the ace’s tongue; Ushijima gulps it down almost greedily.

When he pulls away he licks at his lips. Ushijima’s chin is dripping and his lips glistening. “It is gone.”

“H-huh?” Oikawa mumbles in confusion, still groggy after his mind-shattering orgasm. Ushijima crawls over him, his huge body hovering close above Oikawa’s.

“I sucked it out. It’s gone.”

Oikawa flushes as he realises. Ushijima had _sucked his cum_ out of Oikawa’s cunt – Oikawa’s cunt throbs and aches between his legs as though it wants to replace what was taken from it. He shoves Ushijima off him, getting shakily to his feet, hand braced on the wall to keep him steady. “This can’t happen again.”

Ushijima wipes his face on his shirt, licking his lips once more before getting to his own feet. He pulls up his pants over his half-hard dick. “Why not?”

“Because it’s – it’s wrong.”

“How?” Ushijima’s hand is beside Oikawa’s head, against the wall, caging him in.

Oikawa glares at him, fumbling with his briefs as he pulls them back up and straightens them. “Because I said so.” God, he still wants it – his eyes keep darting back down to Ushijima’s crotch, badly-hidden in the loose pyjama pants he’s wearing. It’s the middle of the night, the place is deserted, and his cunt is making things _very_ difficult for him. They could go for hours. But Oikawa won’t let himself do something like that. He won’t sacrifice his dignity, not even for a perfectly shaped dick. Well… maybe.

He spares Ushijima one last glower before making to leave the bathroom, but before he does he’s stopped by Ushijima’s low, hoarse voice.

“I will have you.”

Oikawa chews on the inside of his cheek to stifle a shiver that threatens to tear down his spine.

“Piss off.”

He doesn’t look back.


	2. Dilution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update is so quick lol i'm just refreshing the ushioi tag once again :') i'm so lonely
> 
> also i forgot all the coaches' names and cba to google them bcus i'm lazy

Oikawa would never admit that he spent an hour after that with his hand thrust between his thighs, gasping into his pillow as he cums over and over again at the memory of Ushijima’s cock filling him so completely.

 

After breakfast the next morning there are no practice matches, much to Oikawa’s relief; there’s a meeting instead. All the teams are crowded into a gym and sat side-by-side as the coaches and staff mill around the podium. It’s the same old thing Oikawa’s heard tens of times before, and his ears tune out as he files in to find his seat. By some sick twist of fate he finds himself sat next to Ushijima Wakatoshi, whom he pointedly chooses to ignore. Iwaizumi sits on his other side.

The two of them sit in silence; Oikawa is still annoyed after their exchange in the bathroom, but he isn’t sure what Ushijima is thinking. His face is unreadable – it might as well be set in stone.

“I won’t forgive you, you know.”

“You asked,” Ushijima replies without missing a beat. It’s only then he fully turns his attention to Oikawa, speaking in a hushed, low tone that Oikawa is more aroused by than he should be.

He’s got a point.

“Still,” Oikawa snips. “You should have known better.”

“I couldn’t stop myself. You –,” Ushijima draws in a nervous, unsure breath. “I couldn’t resist you. What else could I do when you were standing there dripping like a tap –,”

Someone twists around and shushes them angrily.

For a brief moment of silence Oikawa looks at him somberly. “Look, Ushiwaka-chan, just because I don’t have a dick doesn’t mean I’m a free fuck, okay? I’m not a pervert.” _Even if your dick is really nice…_

Ushijima’s brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

The setter, smiling thinly, shrugs. Ushijima’s eyes darken in anger as he does.

“Has someone said that to you before?” he asks, voice impossibly low. It’s a _threat_ , though not to Oikawa. Oikawa has to bite his tongue to keep any untoward sounds of his own from escaping.

“Maybe. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Point is, it’s never going to happen again. I’m going to hate you for the rest of my life and one day I’ll crush your ego into the ground. And that’s that.”

At that moment the head of the camp staff taps the microphone and the meeting begins.

Oikawa is perfectly prepared and perfectly content to ignore Ushijima for the rest of the camp. He has no plans to let his body get out of his control again, not with _Ushijima_ of all people. Sure, he loves boys and the firmness of their bodies, and Ushijima would appear to be the epitome of perceived masculinity: he’s tall, broad, and strong, his skin deep and rich in colour and his entire form chiselled and toned and _strong_. It’s almost ridiculous; in the right light he’s devastatingly attractive, all hard lines and muscle, not in the least bit forgiving. The setter’s throat grips tight, constricting. It’s too dangerous and he knows it. But it’s hard to ignore the ace when his broad hand slides up Oikawa’s bare thigh, fingers reminiscent of the night before; all Oikawa can think about is how they’d felt in other places and he squeezes his knee together, flashing a warning glare. He hopes Ushijima can’t feel how his muscles tighten beneath the touch.

“Get your hand off me,” he hisses, but Ushijima doesn’t. His hand just rests there on Oikawa’s thigh for the entire hour, high up near his hip. They’re then dismissed, and as the others get up, chattering, Oikawa is pinned to his seat by Ushijima’s gaze.

 

They end up in a supply closet not ten minutes later, Ushijima’s face pressed against Oikawa’s chest, hair tousled by the shirt he’d practically dived beneath and tongue lathing over the setter’s nipples. They’re sweet and full and sensitive against his tongue and he can’t resist biting down on them, feeling Oikawa grow sticky beneath his hand, the fingers of which are thrust unforgivingly into Oikawa’s briefs. The setter quickly shimmies out of them, his hands wrestling with Ushijima’s own shorts as he struggles to shove them down far enough to release his cock. His eyes water at the sight of it – it’s hard and slick with precum, ready to be pushed inside him, _aching_ to be. Ushijima moans as Oikawa’s lithe fingers close around his length and give it an exploratory stroke, the sound muffled against Oikawa’s skin.

“You’re insufferable,” Oikawa mumbles as he yanks Ushijima up by the hair to kiss him. “Hurry up and fuck me before I change my mind and leave your balls bluer than the fucking sky.”

He ends up against the wall, his legs hooked over Ushijima’s arms as the ace hold him there; he can feel the blunt, fleshy head of Ushijima’s cock pressing against his already dripping cunt and he whines, desperate to feel it push deep inside him, to split him open and fuck him senseless. Ushijima smirks against his mouth, teasing him by taking his swollen lower lip between his teeth and tugging on it.

“Ask for it.”

Oikawa glares at him as best he can through his teary, fluttering eyes, hips wriggling to try and get more of Ushijima inside him. “P-please,” he breathes. “I need it.”

“Need what?”

“Y-your… your cock. I need your fat cock, shit, please –,” Ushijima’s mouth is suddenly on his as he drops the setter’s weight down onto his dick. Oikawa screams into Ushijima’s mouth, thrusting himself as far down on he can on that thick, delicious cock. He throbs around it, sucking it in, _clinging_ to it as though his life depends on it.

He feels intoxicated. The closet is small and cramped and the air is heavy with sex, with the scent of Oikawa’s juices and the heat of their steaming skin. It’s the first time they’ve had sex face-to-face and Oikawa can’t drag himself away from the sight of Ushijima’s raw, sex-drunk eyes. Their eyes hold – Ushijima can’t look away from him, either, and had his hands not been holding Oikawa up the setter suspects that those hands would be roaming all over him.

“Feels good,” he gasps, their thrusts synchronising. Ushijima grunts, his hands moving to curl around Oikawa’s ass, pressing him further against the wall as he fucks into him harder. With each punishing thrust the air is knocked from Oikawa’s lungs, Ushijima’s cock kissing against the opening of his cervix each time.

“Mmph, fuck,” Ushijia groans, burying his face in Oikawa’s neck and sucking a deep, tingling hickey. “I’m close…” It’s then he makes to pull out, but Oikawa’s legs lock tight around his hips, keeping him in place.

“Don’t you dare,” Oikawa moans in return, and when Ushijima’s thrusts weaken he begins to grind his own hips down, his tongue slick and desperate in Ushijima’s mouth.

“You’ll blame me for it later,” Ushijima mumbles around the setter’s tongue.

“I won’t, I won’t,” promises the setter fervently. “P-please, I need your cum, shoot it all inside me –,”

Ushijima groans again, fingers biting into the skin of Oikawa’s ass; Oikawa feels him grow even bigger inside him and he feels so full of Ushijima’s cock he feels a little sick. But he _needs_ Ushijima’s cum, he needs his potent seed, he _thirsts_ for it.

“One day I will satisfy you,” Ushijima snarls, his breath hitching as his orgasm grows, crawling down his spine and coiling tight in his groin. It’s like he’s about to burst, to explode inside Oikawa and flood him, drown him with cum. Oikawa is so pliant in his arms, soft and melting around his cock; it pushes him right to the very edge and before he knows it he’s cumming, his cock pushed hard against Oikawa’s cervix, pulsing, _exploding_. Oikawa whines at the feel of it and his body begins to shake again, Ushijima’s pubic hair soaked as he cums quickly after. His fingernails dig in painfully to Ushijima’s shoulders as they gasp into each other’s mouths, their bodies rocking slightly against the wall.

When Ushijima draws out of Oikawa’s pussy his cum gushes out, pooling on the floor and dribbling in thick white strings from Oikawa’s raw, fucked body. The setter’s hips still jerk as the cold air rushes in. Ushijima reaches down to grind his thumb against Oikawa’s clit and the setter would have screamed had it not been for the thick tongue in his mouth. He cums not ten seconds later for the second time, hips humping wildly against Ushijima’s fingers.

“Bastard,” Oikawa mumbles, but there’s no real venom in his tone. “Shit, I shouldn’t have…”

Ushijima lets Oikawa down, helping him pull up his short again before fixing himself. “I am sorry,” he apologises quietly.

“I asked you to,” Oikawa says hollowly. “I keep _asking_.” What is it that keeps making him ask? Why does his body scream out in need for Ushijima like this? It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced before in his life. He needs Ushijima like a heroin addict needs his fix.

Ushijima shakes his head and, then, kisses Oikawa gently. “We’re both at fault.”

Oikawa pouts at him but kisses him back. “One day we’re gonna sort this out. After the camp is over.” He pauses, breath hot against Ushijima’s lips. “Then you can fuck me until I can’t see.”

Ushijima nods and watches Oikawa leave, his hair tousled and lips flushed and step lilted. Oikawa hadn’t had time to clean himself up and there’s still an uncomfortably sensitive, wet mess between his legs. Each step he takes sends a throbbing jolt deep inside him and he has to breathe deep to try and calm himself, bringing himself down from the high state of arousal. He doesn’t want to think about Ushijima fucking him senseless – not like they’d fucked already. That’s different. He knows that Ushijima is controlling himself tightly and the mere idea of Ushijima fully unleashing himself upon Oikawa, dropping all restraints, makes the setter want to crawl back and beg for more. But he doesn’t, because if Oikawa is one thing, it’s proud. There’s no telling what Ushijima could do to him. It’s a little intimidating and very, very arousing.

But he has to focus on camp. He has no way to bind himself, not after Ushijima had confiscated the bandages he’d been using. He’d been lucky that there had been a meeting during the morning, but there would inevitably be drills in the afternoon. He has no choice but to approach his coach about it – he’s the only reason Oikawa was let onto the team at all, despite his incredible talent. What he’d been able to hide in middle school and junior high had become prominent and noticeable in high school, but the coach had let him join anyway, with no arguments.

“Talent,” his coach had said to Oikawa as he’d stood trembling with nervousness in front of his desk. “Is all that matters to me. Everything else is inconsequential.” Oikawa’s chest settles a little at the memory of it.

 

His coach allows him to sit out and agrees to vouch for him, though only for a while. Oikawa plays it off as nausea, wearing his loosest shirts and his jacket to hide himself. Iwaizumi, obviously concerned, continues to offer aid – Oikawa declines him every time.

“It’s about time I start dealing with this myself, Iwa-chan,” the setter tells him assuringly. “I’ll be all right.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go all the same.

Oikawa makes it to the dining hall in time for lunch and takes up his usual station between Yahaba and Hanamaki, whistling as he helps himself to some food. Having sex with Ushijima always leaves him starving.

As he looks around, though, he can’t see Ushijima anywhere. He’s not sitting where he usually sits at the Shiratorizawa table, and Ushijima is hardly the type of person to be anything less than punctual, _even_ if he’d been fucking the brains out of his rival team’s captain not ten minutes before. Oikawa is a little unsettled by the absence of those steady golden eyes. He’s gotten so used to them following him like a shadow, watching him, analysing him. Some people might find it creepy, he supposes. He just finds it grounding.

He grimaces as he realises it. It’s not like he was… _looking_ … purposefully for Ushijima. Absolutely not. He just happened to notice he isn’t there.

“You seem kind of distracted,” Matsukawa observes coyly from across the table.

“And restless,” Hanamaki supplies from beside him. Oikawa looks between them both, panic rising slowly in his chest. _Do they know?_ He can’t be sure – Matsukawa and Hanamaki always seem to know things they shouldn’t.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Oikawa smiles easily at them, tucking some rice beneath his tongue. He can’t bring himself to swallow it, though.

 

Ushijima isn’t at practice, either.

Just as Oikawa had suspected, drills and matches resume after lunch. He sits on the sidelines, occasionally coaching some of the younger players in their form and their serves, but nothing that could possibly give him away. He keeps his chest concave and his lungs deflated, arms tucked neatly into his sides. He thanks God that he hadn't been born with anything too big - in fact, he almost doesn’t need to wear a binder at all, but for all his graces and flirtation and confidence he’s still scared. People could still tell. He’s scared of being found out, of being humiliated. He’d rather just… look normal. But now he has no binder. He’d only had one, but it had –

_Pervert._

He shuts his eyes tight, trying his best to will away the memory.

He focuses on the match. It’s between Shiratorizawa and Aobajōsai again; Oikawa notices how differently the teams function without their captains. It’s not less serious and certainly no less intense, but from the sidelines Oikawa notices a distinct lack of electricity that he’d always felt when facing off with Ushijima across the net. The ball is tossed back and forth at incredible speed; Oikawa’s heart swells with adoration as he watches his team. They’re in top form.

They match goes on after the other teams are dismissed for the afternoon; it lasts twenty minutes longer before the coaches call it a draw, both teams exhausted and exhilarated. Oikawa sets about handing out towels and waterbottles to his team, who take them gratefully before going to change.

“Oikawa,” Shiratorizawa’s coach calls, beckoning him over. Oikawa, somewhat surprised to have drawn the old man’s attention, goes over curiously. “Ushijima wants to speak with you privately. He’s at the dorms – Tendou told me to relay the message.” He’s obviously just as confused as Oikawa is, but the setter nods in thanks all the same before setting off at a jog, not even bothering to answer when Iwaizumi yells after him.

He finds Ushijima standing at the end of the corridor; all the doors to the rooms are closed and empty. He’s dressed in casual clothes – he’s been out? Where on earth had he gone? Overwhelmed with curiosity Oikawa makes his way towards him, and when the ace sees him he reaches into the bag slung over his shoulder and draws out a small oblong package wrapped in magazine paper.

“What’s this?” Oikawa asks – he has half a mind not to take it, but he does, his fingers bumping against Ushijima’s. He tears at the paper – a cake recipe taken from some women’s magazine, no doubt – to reveal what’s inside. What the hell could Ushijima have gotten him? There’s nothing he could possibly –

“Oh.”

Oikawa stares down at the binder in his hands. Beneath it sits a sports bra.

“I assume they are the right size,” Ushijima offers, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I got permission to leave the grounds.”

Oikawa looks up sharply, then. “From who? You didn’t tell anyone, right?” His voice is panicky, breathless, and Ushijima holds up his hands in surrender.

“No, I said it was for personal reasons. My coach usually lets me go when there is an emergency. I believe he knows I do not take most things lightly.”

So. Oikawa is a personal reason, now. He’s an emergency, something that Ushijima doesn’t take lightly. The setter’s heart beats shallow in his chest, his breath coming in leaping gasps that he tries his best to conceal. The binder feels so reassuring in his hands and at that moment the only thing he wants to do is to put it on. He shoves the paper into Ushijima’s arms before half dragging him back to his room.

Ushijima doesn’t ask any questions, not while he’s being led like a dog to the Aobajōsai room and not when Oikawa shuts the door behind them. He doesn’t ask questions as Oikawa stands in front of the mirror hung on the wall and begins to remove his shirt; he’s wearing nothing underneath and Ushijima’s eyes are drawn to the lean muscles of his back and the spools of his spine. The setter’s shoulderblades are smooth and sharp and all Ushijima wants to do is to run his tongue over them, between them, right down his spine to the two little dimples just above Oikawa’s waistband.

When Oikawa glances over his shoulder at Ushijima he sees him staring with lips slightly parted; it’s the same face his sister makes when they visit the art gallery.

“Are you gonna help me or what?” Oikawa snaps irritably as he shimmies out of his pants and steps into the binder, wriggling it up over his legs and his hips. He’s holding his breath and hoping to God that it fits. Ushijima, unsure of what to do, lets his hands hover just above Oikawa’s hips. Grunting, Oikawa tugs and yanks and wriggles around, letting out a frustrated curse as he gets more and more tangled.

“I haven’t… had this type before,” he admits a little sheepishly. “Here – straighten out the back for me.”

Ushijima slips his fingers between the material and Oikawa’s skin, fixing the straps and smoothing out the places the material had flipped or bunched. Smoothing his palms over Oikawa’s back he looks up; their gazes meet in the mirror and he sees the base of Oikawa’s throat hollow out as he inhales. The setter breathes deeply, and for the first time since Ushijima had torn him from those bandages he feels utter, pure relief.

“Does it fit?”

“Like a dream.” Oikawa turns around a little nervously – Ushijima has done him a great good and he isn’t exactly sure how to thank him. He’s far too used to being angry and spitting on his name for this. “Um… thanks.”

Ushijima inclines his head politely. “I understand that you dislike having to reserve yourself – I figured this way would be safer for you, rather than bandages. The bra is for exercise, since I trust you won't be wearing _this._ ”

Oikawa narrows his eyes slightly, looking up into the ace’s face. “How do you know so much about this stuff anyway, Ushiwaka-chan? How do you know that binders are dangerous during exercise?”  _You seem too knowledgable for your own good._

“I… one of my brothers is like you.”

Oikawa blinks. Ushijima? A brother? Like Oikawa? His palms grow unbearably hot.

“He moved abroad a few years ago, but I speak to him sometimes and he is doing well. From what I understand his transition is nearing completion. He is due for surgery in a few months.”

Oikawa is buzzing. Standing before him is a real success story, proof that everything he’s gone through and will go through can still end in success. Ushijima knows a success.

“Did you help him?” Oikawa asked breathlessly. “This is how you know, right? About binders and bandages.”

Ushijima nods.

Oikawa’s voice grows a little quieter. “And your family, do they…?”

“They are traditional,” Ushijima replies. “My brother is of my mother’s second husband, and he is not to fond of this kind of thing… but so long as none of us mentioned it, he managed. I believe my mother was glad to have another son.” He pauses for a moment, lips still parted and tongue glinting behind his teeth. “She told me that so long as her child is still alive she wouldn’t care if they became a horse.”

Oikawa couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Oh, how he wishes his own parents would be like that.

“Your situation is not the same.”

Oikawa’s laughter fades and his smile slowly flickers out. He plucks at the hem of his binder. “No… not especially. My mom really doesn’t mind – she loves me, she really does, and she said that she didn’t care. But my father –,” his voice stalls in his throat, flames flashing before his eyes. _Pervert._ He shakes his head, chuckling humourlessly. “He doesn’t like it much.”

His attention is roused when he feels Ushijima’s palm cup his cheek and gently raise his face. Strong thumbs stroke over Oikawa’s cheeks and the setter’s eyes dip close at the gentle sensations. They stand like that for a moment, Ushijima merely appreciating the beauty that is Oikawa Tooru, and Oikawa appreciating the safety he feels whenever Ushijima touches him. When Oikawa opens his eyes his vision is filled with Ushijima gazing softly down at him, eyes hooded in affection beyond what he’s ever thought the man capable of expressing.

“Oikawa, I –,”

They’re interrupted by a sudden ruckus from the hall as the teams begin to file back from the showers. The two jump apart, then, Oikawa hurriedly pulling on his shirt again and smoothing down the front of it just as the door slides open to reveal the Aobajōsai third years. Matsukawa and Hanamaki regard Ushijima suspiciously yet curiously, and Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows at Oikawa – he quickly notices the change in shape of Oikawa’s torso and raises his eyebrows even higher. Ushijima inclines his head again and takes his leave silently.

Oikawa doesn’t want him to go.


	3. Designation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids it's me, have a huge long chapter full of all the good stuff
> 
> i just want to tack on a warning, though: a rape scenario is briefly mentioned towards the end of the chap but it's discussed as a consensual roleplay
> 
> also did i mention i fuckin love ushijima to death oh my gd??????

“What’s up with you?” Matsukawa asks leisurely as he stretches out on his futon. “You’ve been acting weird ever since we walked in on you and cow-breath.”

Oikawa raises his head from where it’s lying on his arms and quirks an eyebrow at the not-so-fond nickname. “Nah,” he mumbles before returning to his previous position. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just feeling a bit sick.”

“Maybe he leaned in too close. Do you think Ushiwaka’s breath really smells like cows? That’s kind of gross.” Hanamaki shudders as he changes. Oikawa pouts into the back of his hand; he _knows_ that Ushijima’s breath doesn’t smell like cows. In fact, Oikawa knows from personal experience that Ushijima’s breath always smells like one of three things: toothpaste, spices, or sex. And they’re all equally pleasant and definitely _not_ gross, not that he’d ever admit it.

But that gets him thinking. Primarily about whether or not Ushijima would get morning breath, which then leads on to thoughts of Ushijima sleepy and warm with tousled hair and a bare chest marked with sheet creases, of Ushijima stretching and blinking blearily into the sun, captured in those first few slow moments of wakefullness. These are thoughts Oikawa knows he shouldn’t be thinking. But he can’t help it. Sighing, he rolls onto his back and rubs his face into his hands.

It’s the last night of camp – it almost feels like they’ve been entirely removed from reality and now they’re facing return. They’ll be dropped back into their daily lives and things will return to how they used to be. Oikawa isn’t entirely sure if he wants that to happen.

But things won’t ever be how they used to. He’ll return to his life with a new attitude about a man he previously hated; he can’t change his mind no matter how hard he tries. Not since he’d started dreaming about Ushijima’s sleeping face and not since he’d felt stuffed full of the man’s cock, either. No – there’s no going back for him now. Somehow he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Come on,” Iwaizumi barks at the team, his hand hovering over the light switch. They’re all scrubbed and showered and the room smells like unwashed pyjamas and toothpaste. “Lights out, kids.”

Oikawa lies in the cool darkness trying not to think. God, thinking has turned into such a dangerous thing – those golden eyes are at every turn, and with each flicker of that heavy, thick meat thrust so deep inside him… yeah. It’s definitely dangerous. He fidgets for a while before falling into a shallow, warm sleep that somehow manages to last him until dawn.

 

“Come on, move it! We don’t have all day and the basketball club needs the bus by noon!” Their club advisor’s voice booms out across the parking lot as the Aobajōsai team drag their sleepy feet across the asphalt. The dismissal meeting had terminated and the camp had been officially disbanded for the year, the teams milling out towards busses all parks in an array of colours in the parking lot. Oikawa rubs his eyes tiredly, shifting his bag on his shoulder as he yawns.

He’s suddenly jolted to wakefulness by a hand around his arm – he’s practically dragged just out of sight behind a wide concrete pillar, back pushed up against it by two warm, large hands. He smells Ushijima before he sees him.

“When we return to Sendai I want to meet with you privately,” Ushijima says to him, his voice tightly controlled. Oikawa licks his lips, smirking.

“Oh, is that so? What makes you think I’ll want to meet with you, Ushiwaka-chan?” Oikawa can never resist teasing.

“Because,” Ushijima murmurs, his voice dropping low as his lips press against Oikawa’s ear. “I know how affected you become with my cock inside you and I doubt I’ll be able to hold myself back anyway. So I figured you might as well cooperate.”

Oikawa’s skin rises; chills skirt over him at the deep, threatening tone of the ace’s voice. He takes Ushijima’s chin into his hand, squishing his cheeks together, pinching his mouth in a ridiculous fish-face and contorting his own expression into one of mock pity. “You’d better give me what I want, then, Ushiwaka-chan, or you’ll just have to use your hand from now on.” Oikawa, of course, would have gone even if he hadn’t asked him to – but, also of course, Ushijima doesn’t know that. He sees the startings of a grin flicker to Ushijima’s lips.

“I will,” he promises in that deep, erotic rumble before leaning in to kiss Oikawa hotly on the mouth; it’s all they have time for before the others begin to call for them. Oikawa walks back to his bus tingly all over, though most of the sensations are centred between his thighs, something that isn’t entirely useful at the moment.

He spends the most part of the bus trip replaying their liaisons in his mind, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“All right, spit it out.” Iwaizumi’s chin is resting on his hand, elbow braced against the window of the bus. They’re sat right up the back, all the third years sitting across the row, and this time Iwaizumi has a window seat (because Oikawa had it on the way there, naturally). He’s gazing at Oikawa with that particular half-hooded gaze that just screams incredulity.

“Spit what out?” asks Oikawa innocently. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. You and Ushiwaka. What’s going on?” When Oikawa makes no move to reply Iwaizumi leans in and lowers his voice. “Look – I know he gave you the binder and the bra. Do you _really_ take me for that much of an idiot?”

Oikawa’s face flushes hot as he considers telling Iwaizumi everything – after all, Iwaizumi knows pretty much everything about him anyway, so what’s one more disaster? The setter gnaws on his lips, eyes flitting around the bus restlessly. Iwaizumi waits, gaze anchored on his friend. His patience always had known no bounds – at least when things become serious.

“I just…” Oikawa begins, wringing his hands in his lap. “Iwa-chan, I did something bad.” His own voice drops to a whisper as they lean their heads in close together, closing themselves off from the rest of the bus. They’re tucked neatly away in the back corner of the vehicle, though, for which Oikawa is immensely glad.

 _What did you do this time?_ Iwaizumi’s eyes ask, though he says nothing, waiting for Oikawa to admit his crimes in how own time. He knows pushing won’t get him anywhere.

“I… I had sex with Ushiwaka. More than once.” As he speaks his voice begins to wobble and his face grows unbearably hot; he’s humiliated, and soon he can’t stand the shocked look on Iwaizumi’s face and drops his head into his hands. “After you found us in the locker room we just… ugh, I don’t know! It just _happened_ , I don’t know how.”

Iwaizumi lets out a low whistle, sitting back in his seat and taking the time to fully process the information. “Wow. You don’t usually do things stupid enough to shock me, honestly, but this is just… something else.” And then he bursts out laughing.

Iwaizumi’s laughter has always been loud and horribly contagious; the sound fills the entire bus, drawing the attention of the team, and soon Oikawa finds himself laughing too. It’s just all so ridiculous and so awful that he laughs and laughs and laughs. He doesn’t even notice the team watching him, and he keeps laughing until his laughs turn to sobs and he finds himself howling into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, overcome with self-loathing and grief.

“I thought you hated him,” Iwaizumi says as he consoles the setter, handing him a pack of tissues. “What are you crying for, dumbass?”

“I’m so stupid,” Oikawa wails. It’s what he needed, if he’s to be honest with himself – bursting into tears has always brought him clarity. “You wouldn’t believe the things I said to him, Iwa-chan!” He blows his nose noisily, sniffling as the tears begin to come to a stop.

He then proceeds to tell Iwaizumi everything, from what how he’d begged for Ushijima to cum inside him to the ace’s gift. Iwaizumi barks at the rest of the team to mind their own damn business and claps his hands over his ears when Oikawa talks of Ushijima’s bodily fluids and the unbelievable size of his dick. Those are the things Iwaizumi really doesn’t need to hear.

“But you could get pregnant,” Iwaizumi says eventually, his memory turning back to the birth-control disaster. Oikawa nods glumly.

“I know… it’s unbelievable, Iwa-chan. I don’t mean to, but I just _do_.” He chews on his lip again, shivering as he remembers the thick, viscous cum Ushijima filled him with time and time again, the sensation of it dribbling down the inside of his thighs, its potency bubbling from his raw, gaping cunt – Oikawa, shifting awkwardly as arousal settles smug and warm between his legs, tries not to think about it.

The one thing Oikawa doesn’t tell Iwaizumi is Ushijima’s request to meet with him privately once they return to Sendai. For some reason he decides it’s better for that to remain a secret, at least until it’s over. Iwaizumi takes his time berating Oikawa and voicing his confusion – “You hate his guts! I don’t get it. You’re weird.” – before he sighs, folding his arms over his chest and looking out the window.

“When we walked into our room at the camp – when you and Ushiwaka were there – something was different.” Iwaizumi doesn’t look at Oikawa as he talks. “It might have been my mind playing tricks on me, but…” he shakes his head and falls silent. “I’m not gonna mother you, Tōru. It’s time you take care of yourself, but if you end up with a baby that’s gonna be your own stupid fault and _you_ will have to explain that to your dad.”

Oikawa looks down and feels a little sick at the thought. _He’d skin me alive._

For the rest of the bus ride Oikawa sits wondering about what Iwaizumi had sensed when he’d walked in on them. Oikawa can’t think of anything specific, nor can he pinpoint exactly what it might have been that Iwaizumi sensed. But he agrees that there _was_ , indeed, something different. He had felt the shift inside himself when he’d first pictured Ushijima sleeping soundly, and he wonders if something has shifted inside the ace as well. He doesn’t know what it is, though, but it makes his body hot and his heart ache.

He doesn’t really want to put a name to it.

“Do you think I’m a pervert, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi snorts with laughter. “You’re weird as fuck and annoying as hell but you’re no pervert, Tōru.”

 

They arrive in Sendai a little before noon. The basketball club is already waiting and the volleyball team unloads, stretching their limbs and smelling the air, fresh after a brief rainstorm. Oikawa and Iwaizumi catch the same train home and don’t broach the subject of Ushijima again. They both know there’ll come a time to talk about it, but that time isn’t now, and so they’re perfectly content to let it rest.

When Oikawa gets home he greets his mother and heads up to shower and change. All the while he’s wondering when Ushijima wants to meet him and exactly what they’ll do; his groin tightens at the thought of wrapping his lips or the slick flesh of his cunt around that thick, juicy cock again, and he wills time forwards as best he can, fuelled by need and anger (anger at his own willingness, apparently). They hadn’t exchanged numbers or anything like that, so Oikawa deigns to visit Shiratorizawa after school the next day for the dreaded yet anticipated confrontation.

 

And that is exactly what he does.

 

“You coming or what?” Iwaizumi asks after the final bell rings. Oikawa looks up from where he’s putting on his shoes, his big hazel eyes wide.

“Hm? Oh, no, you go on ahead. I have some things to talk about with my English teacher, so I’ll be a while!”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Right. Don’t kiss too much backside, jackass. You’ll become a bigger piece of shit than you already are.” He flashes a humorous grin over his shoulder, though, and is hurried from the room by an exclamation of mock-hurt.

Oikawa waits for half an hour skulking around the halls – it’s long enough for him to be sure Iwaizumi has left. He knows how long it will take for him to get to Shiratorizawa, too, though that’s certainly something he won’t readily admit. By the time he gets there, whistling with his bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, there are already sounds of yelling and the squeak of sneakers on the court of the gym.

He waits by the door; there’s no point trying to announce himself over the noise. He glances around briefly; Shiratorizawa Academy has never failed to amaze him, what with its size and grandeur. He’d always hated it and felt sub par because of it, and even now it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and so he focuses on the inside of the gym. While he waits he watches the team go through drills – he spots Ushijima immediately. It’s hard not to, really – Ushijima is tall and wide and his presence is as demanding during practice as it is in official matches. Each drill has his body moving within itself, his muscles swimming beneath sweat-slick skin. He’s breathing hard, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes alight. Oikawa shifts, his abdomen growing suspiciously warm at the sight of Ushijima so violently working himself up into a sweat. He’s the personification of raw power.

It’s Tendou who notices him first; he hits Ushijima on the back and the ace turns around, following Tendou’s curt nod in Oikawa’s direction. When he sees Oikawa his solemn, determined face opens a little, brow rising and eyes lightening ever so slightly. He’s still breathing hard as he approaches, wiping his face on his shirt so it rides up and reveals his defined abdomen and the promising trail of dark hair leading below his waistband.

“You’ll get in trouble if you’re seen,” Ushijima tells him breathlessly as soon as he’s within earshot. He comes to stand very close and Oikawa is hit full-force by the heady scent of musk and sweat and strength. He has to remind himself why he’s here – which _isn’t_ to drag Ushijima into the locker rooms and fuck him silly.

“Not even a hello, Ushiwaka-chan? How rude,” Oikawa plays off lightly. “You said you wanted to meet me after camp, so here I am.”

“I meant _privately_. This is not private.” By now his team has grown curious, the coach having noticed Oikawa’s presence and already beginning to make his way over. Seeing this, Ushijima hurriedly pulls Oikawa in to speak lowly in his ear. “Wait for me in the park just outside the school. I will meet you there.”

Oikawa manages to escape before the coach reaches them, leaving Ushijima to come up with some (undoubtedly woeful) excuse. He slips unnoticed off the campus and heads towards the small, neatly-kept park a few hundred meters away from the front gates; it’s a little kiss of green in the otherwise urbanised neighbourhood. He sets his bag down on a bench and amuses himself with kicking rocks into a small hollow in the old, gnarled Japanese maple tree.

“Oikawa.”

The setter whirls around and sees Ushijima coming towards him; he’s changed out of his sports uniform and into his school one, though he still looks a little exerted. Something about him is being very tightly controlled; Oikawa tries not to think about the fact that seeing Ushijima in a necktie makes him want to jump his bones right there in the park.

“Is this private enough for you, then?” asks Oikawa, folding his arms impatiently. The air is static between them, Ushijima’s eyes flashing wildly.

“No. Come back to my house. We can talk there.”

The train they take is full. Oikawa is jostled roughly as the last few people try and squeeze into the carriage, packed tight like sardines stuffed into a can. He’s always hated busy trains like this, but Ushijima is pressed firmly against his back; Oikawa can see the strong line of the ace’s wrist as he takes hold of one of the straps, Oikawa closing one of his own hands around a pole.

The chatter of the passengers closes in tight around them, pressing them even closer; Oikawa can smell Ushijima, the lingering scent of sweat and exertion. He reminds Oikawa curiously of when his mother used to hang the linen out in the sunlight to dry… Oikawa had gone out into the back garden to surround himself with those warm, clean sheets and breathe in their very particular, homely smell. Ushijima reminds him of those days.

But there’s an undertone to it. Something darker, heavier, that lodges in Oikawa’s throat like a stone and has him shivering uncontrollably each time the train jolts over the track and sends his body back into Ushijima’s. It’s something he didn’t know about as a child, something he hadn’t experienced at all before, not from anybody – the messages he’s receiving are electric. The curve of his ass presses up against Ushijima’s crotch and he swears he hears the ace inhale sharply when it does.

Oikawa smirks. Maybe, just maybe, he could have the upper hand.

Tentatively he lets his body rock back into Ushijima’s again; he can feel the slight but distinct swell of Ushijima’s groin, not yet aroused enough to have grown to the size Oikawa is used to. It’s tucked neatly against the cleft of his ass, Ushijima’s fly lightly touching the seam of Oikawa’s pants. If he arches his hips just a little bit –

The train pulls into the next station and jerks to a stop beside the platform. The crowd lurches as one, shoulders rubbing and elbows banging, children whining at the closeness and women fanning themselves with cheap paper fans, their throats glistening enchantingly with sweat. Oikawa allows himself to push back against Ushijima, this time bowing his back just a little to gather more pressure. He hears Ushijima inhale sharply from behind him, his chin tipping forwards a little over the setter’s shoulder so the sound drops right into the whorl of his ear.

Out of the corner of his eye Oikawa can see Ushijima’s hand tighten around the strap – the train sets into motion again and Oikawa wriggles his hips, rubbing the seat of his pants liberally over Ushijima’s crotch and only just managing to bite back a smirk as the swell of it begins to grow. Ushijima’s knuckles are white with the force of his grip; the whiteness looks strange and almost sickly against the darkness of his skin, and though his nails are short and clipped they still bite into the skin at the heel of his hand. Oikawa sniggers silently, passing it off as a cough that he masks with the back of his hand.

“Not here,” Ushijima says and Oikawa’s body is electric at his voice, hot and creamy against Oikawa’s cheek. He blinks, innocently, turning slightly so he can meet the smouldering gold gaze.

“Not what? Ushiwaka-chan, what are you talking about?” And then he gives Ushijima a bright and outrageously false smile, turning around and humming contentedly as he watches the flat basin of Sendai race past.

A hand sits heavily on his hip. He glances down, beneath his elbow, and immediately recognises it – Ushijima’s fingers squeeze in what Oikawa knows to be a warning: one that he pointedly chooses to ignore. With each jolt of the train they’re thrown against each other and Ushijima’s hips anchor forward, the ridge of his erection pressed up against the curve of Oikawa’s ass. Oikawa stops humming when his breath begins to hitch dangerously as Ushijima’s hand slips down over his hip to press gently just over his pelvis, tantalisingly close but not quite close enough. The hand sits over Oikawa’s womb, the tips pressed into the slight hardness beneath the skin, massaging in a way Oikawa had never even thought possible. The hand brings them closer, holds Oikawa firmly and prevents him from escaping or pulling away.

“How impatient,” Oikawa murmurs slyly, his wet lips parted. They’re hidden in a corner, near a window so Oikawa can see his own face and that of Ushijima over his shoulder in the reflection. “You just can’t wait, can you?”

Ushijima doesn’t reply. In the reflection his eyes are shut, head tilted down slightly, high cheeks coloured prettily with a blush as pink as a tea rose. His hand presses harder, his hips moving fluidly.

“Careful or you might mess your pants,” Oikawa hisses, tipping his own head back until he feels Ushijima’s shoulder against the crown of his head. “Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

It’s only then Ushijima’s eyes peel open, the pupils strangely constricted, those gold irises even paler than Oikawa remembers. The setter grows giddy when he recognises the true depth of Ushijima’s hunger, how tightly he’d been controlling himself, and the smile drops from his face, dewy lips parting in a silent moan. But Ushijima refuses to kiss him, not here, not on a train. His own lips dance just out of reach, his hand unmoving. His hips stop rocking.

“I ought to take you here,” Ushijima growls finally. Oikawa bites his lip, hard, at the hot wet breath against his neck. “In front of all these people. You like being watched, Oikawa, you always have.”

Oikawa almost challenges him – he almost tells him to do it, to push Oikawa down and fuck him into the floor in front of all these businessmen and students and housewives, in front of all these people who know Oikawa’s face. He almost, _almost_ tells him to show every single person in the carriage how debased Oikawa Tōru can be, but he doesn’t, because he knows there’s a fairly decent chance Ushijima actually _would._ After all, there’s no negotiating with a beast.

“So, hm?” he hums instead, long fingers creeping over the back of Ushijima’s hand to guide it lower, curling the fingers between his thighs so the spiker can feel the telltale dampness already seeping through his uniform. Oikawa doesn’t want to think about the state of his briefs by this point. “You know, Ushiwaka-chan, I could yell right now. You’re molesting me in a train – how scandalous! One of Japan’s most promising volleyball stars caught with his pants down.” His eyes twinkle, tongue dancing on the ridge of his teeth. And then he draws in a deep breath, rolling his hips hard against Ushijima’s fingers, and –

Before he can yell out, Ushijima’s hand disappears from between his legs, yanking him by his collar to turn him around and shove him hard against the window. Those thick fingers force their way past Oikawa’s lips and into his mouth – three of them – and whatever words Oikawa had been about to say melted into a weak moan. Of course he hadn’t _really_ planned to yell, but the teasing was too much fun. Oikawa meekly realises that he may have just pushed Ushijima a little too far.

Ushijima’s eyes are aflame as he crowds the setter against the window, forcing his fingers deeper into his mouth. He scrapes over Oikawa’s tongue, stroking over the fleshy bulb of his uvula – pleasantly feeling the setter jerk and his throat convulse as he does so – and then right to the back, until he can feel the soft, spongy flesh of Oikawa’s throat and the hard ridge of his gag reflex. He flicks his finger against it, watching nonchalantly as Oikawa’s eyes well with tears and he chokes audibly around Ushijima’s fingers. He vaguely imagines how this throat would feel wrapped around his cock, the tightness and the shuddering constrictions; it’s so soft and wet and how and Oikawa’s face is so beautiful when he’s on the verge of tears. Ushijima wants nothing more than to force his way down Oikawa’s throat and abuse him until he cries. But he can’t do that here, not in a train; this will have to suffice for now, and three of the ace’s thick, rough fingers aren’t easy to swallow.

The spiker tilts his head, holding back a smug little smile as he does so, drawing his thick fingers back until his fingernails hit Oikawa’s teeth before sliding them into Oikawa’s throat again. Oikawa gags, a hand closing around Ushijima’s wrist. He tries his best to keep eye contact even though his eyes are watering and his face is flushed; saliva drips down his chin and he can feel it dribble down the front of his throat. He grinds his hips against the air, the seam of his fly tight against his swollen clit. His lips close around the fingers in his mouth and he begins to suck on them desperately, his soft tongue weaving between them; his hand pulls at Ushijima’s wrist, urging him closer, those teary eyes growing heavy as lust descends like a stack of bricks. With each thrust of the ace’s fingers deep into the slick confines of his mouth there’s an obscene, wet little sound that has Oikawa grinding his hips even harder, desperate to feel the stretch of Ushijima’s cock filling him up.

Suddenly the thought of being fucked in a train doesn’t sound so bad.

The tannoy goes off over their heads and Ushijima looks up, pulling his fingers from Oikawa’s mouth and wiping them on the setter’s shirt. Oikawa coughs, gasping for air, drool dripping from his chin down onto the starched material of his uniform.

There are a number of stations where the majority of passengers disembark. This is the first of them, the train filled with angry barks and the sound of rushing feet as the businessmen disembark like a school of fish, all matching in their uniform of blue nylon suits and shiny briefcases. When they leave the train is considerably emptier, and Ushijima grips Oikawa around the top of his arm and half-drags him to the back of the carriage to a cluster of newly-vacant seats. Oikawa, still catching his breath, collapses gratefully into the seat beside the window, Ushijima settling in beside him.

“You just fucked my mouth with your fingers,” Oikawa says, bewildered.

“Open your trousers.”

Oikawa looks at Ushijima’s eyes, pupils still small and irises still pale. It makes electricity shoot right to his groin, and wordlessly he unzips his fly and spreads open his pants just enough for Oikawa to see the sticky mess of his briefs, the white material dark and translucent enough to show the dark flush of Oikawa’s swollen pussy beneath the material. He blushes when Ushijima chuckles, shifting in his seat to turn his body towards the setter.

“If you touch me now I’ll die,” Oikawa warns him, but Ushijima ignores him and strokes the back of his index finger against the soaked material.

Oikawa jumps slightly, his yelp muffled in the palm of his hand. His thighs relax, though, spreading open further as Ushijima’s hand slips inside his trousers. His breath begins to come quickly, lungs clutching at the air he suddenly can’t take in; his hips hump against the palm of Ushijima’s hand and the thumb that suddenly presses against his clit, grinding down.

“Pervert,” Oikawa breathes unsteadily. Ushijima glances at the relatively empty train as it pulls into another station, and then turns back to Oikawa and slips his hand below the waistband of his briefs.

“What – _oh_ ,” Oikawa gasps as Ushijima’s finger slides between his wet, swollen folds, quickly finding their way to his hole. Ushijima doesn’t push in right away, though, and instead takes his time teasing Oikawa until his hips are arching up off the seat and his fingers scrabble at Ushijima’s wrists and he’s begging in a hoarse, hot whisper, the heady smell of sex and precum rising like a fog between them.

Ushijima pushes in first one, then two fingers. Oikawa’s thighs quiver and his hips roll to try and get those fingers a little deeper; Ushijima smirks as he curls the digits inside, massaging behind the pubic bone again in that magical little spot that has Oikawa practically collapsing boneless against his shoulder. He massages Oikawa’s clit with the heel of his hand and his whole palm is soon dripping with fluids, Oikawa’s hips humping wildly. The setter’s eyes are hooded and dark, lips still wet and flushed and cheeks a brilliant red; Ushijima wants to kiss him, but while their hands and groins are out of view their heads are not.

“Excuse me,” a tentative voice calls to them; Oikawa jerks weakly and Ushijima looks up, heart going stone cold with a very deep and silent terror. A young woman sitting with a stroller a few seats in front of them has turned in concern. “Is… he okay? Should I call someone?” She looks at Oikawa, whose eyelids flutter as he turns his face into Ushijima’s shoulder, trying his best to control his hips; it doesn’t do much good, and they stutter and roll against Ushijima’s hand all the same. Oikawa clutches at Ushijima’s sleeve, face burning with humiliation.

“No,” Ushijima replies, adding a third finger to the other two and beginning to thrust in and out again, once more assaulting Oikawa’s swollen, slick walls. The setter bites hard into Ushijima’s sleeve, his whole body coiling tight. “He’ll be fine. I am taking him home now.”

Oikawa gasps, letting out a weak, dazed little moan as he shifts himself to try and drive Ushijima’s fingers even deeper; the woman, still obviously concerned for Oikawa’s health, nods and sits down, engaging herself with her cooing baby.

“You were almost caught,” Ushijima smirks. Oikawa takes his face from Ushijima’s shoulder, his eyes running and his chin wet, his entire visage blushing as red as the leaves of the maple tree they’d stood beneath only a little while ago. “We will have to get off soon. Compose yourself.” He draws his fingers out of Oikawa’s cunt with a wet squelch, pulling out a packet of tissues and wiping down his fingers. As the train begins to slow, Oikawa fumbles with his trousers, gorgeously dishevelled and aroused. He still hasn’t cum.

They get off the train, Ushijima holding Oikawa’s elbow to keep him from collapsing.

“You’d better fuck me until I can’t even walk straight,” Oikawa grumbles on the short walk from the station to Ushijima’s house, each step rubbing his swollen clit. He’s barely keeping it together. “Or else I’ll strangle you.”

Ushijima chuckles.

It’s been a long time since Oikawa had been utterly unaware of his surroundings. It’s as though he’d woken just before dawn on one of those strange autumn days; the days mist rolled in from the ocean, blanketing Sendai in thick fog. That’s how he feels, his head filled with a haze, thick and impenetrable and buzzing like the energy held in the first light, just before dawn. All he can focus on is Ushijima’s fingers on his arm and the way they grasp him, holding him so unflinchingly upright; all he can think about is how those fingers had felt inside him not half an hour before.

He recognises beauty, though only vaguely. Everything passes in a blur of dense foliage and close, looming mountains and he sees eyes, everywhere, looking at him and prying at his clothes and making him tingle from his scalp to his toes. The unsteadiness of the road beneath his feet does nothing to tame the wild heat coiling in his groin – the closeness between him and Ushijima only make it worse.

Oikawa vaguely registers a low, long house that he’d probably find rather beautiful if his vision hadn’t been one-track. As it happens, however, Oikawa isn’t able to focus on anything but Ushijima.

“I need it,” he gasps as he’s practically hauled through the house; he hears a door slamming and suddenly those strong fingers are at his shirt, tearing the buttons from their seams. They scatter away over the floor, rolling like marbles. Ushijima’s frustrated hands press flush against the front of the setter’s binder.

“Shirt, off –,” Oikawa doesn’t have to finish, the spiker swatting away his clumsy hands to make quick work of his own clothes; he leans down, pulling Oikawa up into his arms and trapping him against the wall, their lips colliding in a starving kiss – one they weren’t able to indulge in until now. Oikawa’s teeth tug at Ushijima’s lower lip, the other man taking Oikawa’s long, dextrous tongue into his mouth. The kiss is so messy that saliva bubbles from between their lips, smearing over their chins until the two become one.

It’s Oikawa who breaks for air first, his hips gyrating in Ushijima’s grasp, legs locked tightly around his waist. “Stop fucking around and put it in me.” His voice is deliciously low, almost a rasp, his eyes hooded and wet. “You’ve made me wait long enough, you bastard.”

If Ushijima is worried about hurting Oikawa he doesn’t show it. He hauls the setter over his shoulder and carries him into a wide, spacious room with a low ceiling and exposed beams, a traditional fire pit fenced in clean wooden slats in the middle of the floor. The screens are all closed.

Oikawa lands with a satisfying _thud_ on the tatami mats, Ushijima rearing over him; his eyes are brighter, somehow, pupils now starving pinpricks in the swimming sunlight of his irises. They’re the only window Oikawa has into what the spiker is feeling. His face is as unreadable as a stone slab, though the muscles of his jaw work furiously beneath the skin.

Rough hands push Oikawa’s legs apart; much like the chopsticks Oikawa had noticed in the dining hall at camp, those dark fingers made quick and delicate work of his fly, tearing off his trousers without so much as splitting a seam, leaving the setter’s hips to rise into the air in search of touch. The white of his briefs are stained dark with his juices, the waistband still sitting askew from where Ushijima’s hand had recently been inside them.

“Hurry!” Oikawa barks, his voice breaking up an octave. He jams the heel of his foot against Ushijima’s groin in irritation, the bursting ridge of his erection grinding against the arch of his foot; Ushijima doubles over, then, his mouth dropping open, lips shining with saliva. He’s still for a moment, his entire form stuttering like a jammed engine. Oikawa blinks, his mouth suddenly rather dry. He swallows. “Did you just…?”

A moment of silence passes between them. It’s a pure, still moment, the low wind rustling through the foliage outside. Slowly, Oikawa’s hunger rises into his throat and he brings himself trembling onto his hands and knees, crawling between Ushijima’s legs and fumbling with the spiker’s own fly. That glorious hardness has, indeed, shrunk, but not by much, and he can sense it grow again beneath his palm.

He draws Ushijima’s trousers off – where Ushijima had been hurried, Oikawa is more curious than anything, anticipation rising alongside the hunger and making it worse. Flinging them to the side Oikawa sinks down, his swollen lips hovering just over the material, damp and slick with cum.

Oikawa has never tasted Ushijima’s cum before. The realisation makes his knees week and his throat ache with the need to taste it on his tongue and feel it slide thick and heavy down his throat. With a gasp he presses his lips flush to Ushijima’s underwear, right over the sensitive head of his cock. Ushijima hisses, a hand reflexively reaching down to fist in the setter’s hair; it does nothing to guide him, though, and Oikawa’s stomach is still fluttering as his fingers carefully inch their way up Ushijima’s muscled thighs. His eyes, blown wide and wet with lust, fix unflinchingly on Ushijima’s when he pulls away, his lip connected to Ushijima’s clothed cock by a long string of saliva.

When he peels Ushijima’s underwear off he’s met with the delicious sight of his hard, wet dick lying against his hip. It’s flushed, angry and red and swollen and _delicious_ ; Oikawa almost enters into a trance merely at the sight of it and he can’t get his lips on it quick enough. Extending a trembling tongue, he licks from base to tip before latching his lips onto it and letting his mouth sink down the length. It’s monstrous; the girth of it spreads his plump lips wide, spearing to the back of his mouth and pushing insistently against the spongy flesh at the back of his throat. Ushijima vaguely recalls the feel of the setter’s throat around his fingers in the train, and at that moment he wants nothing more than to experience those delicious sensations first hand.

Oikawa has never seen a dick this big before in his life. It sounds cliché, even to him, but it’s _true_ – somehow he’s not surprised. But he can hardly think about it, what with every ounce of his attention riveted to the hard, dripping cock against his lips. He takes it deep into his mouth again, trying to urge it down his throat and gagging so violently he’s scared he might be sick. His eyes fill with tears, and the spill down his fiery cheeks, mixing with the saliva bubbling from the corners of his mouth. It’s wet and filthy and obscene – Oikawa’s cunt throbs in need.

Ushijima leans back on one hand, using the other to take a tight hold of Oikawa’s hair. He mumbles out a crooked apology before shoving the setter down on his cock, hard, feeling as the head breaks past the tight passage of Oikawa’s throat, pushing deep until Oikawa’s nose is buried in the dark, wiry hairs at the base of his dick, his entire body convulsing with discomfort. The ace breathes heavily, hips flexing as he pulls Oikawa off his cock, the setter gasping for breath before Ushijima’s cock is thrust deep into his throat again.

With each thrust it gets easier, Oikawa’s throat loosening and growing thicker, the painful sting fading. Oikawa lets himself be used like that, lets Ushijima fuck his throat to his heart’s content, unfocused hazel eyes rolling back under flickering eyelids as he grinds his hips against the floor to try and glean some stimulation. Ushijima’s other hand joins the first, tugging harshly on his hair as he’s used like a toy; he’s something for Ushijima to fuck, a piece of meat to help him cum. Just thinking about it makes Oikawa a little afraid that he might cum hands-free.

Ushijima lets out a tight grunt, pulling on Oikawa’s hair so harshly that the setter thinks he might just tear it out; with tense muscles the ace pushes his cock into Oikawa’s mouth, into his throat, holding the setter’s face against his pelvis as he shudders. He cums, then, _hard_ – Oikawa beats at his thighs in his effort to breathe. The combination of the lack of air, the rough abuse of his throat, the sensation of Ushijima cumming down his throat – Oikawa looses all sense of himself, just for a moment, his thighs quivering with a need greater than anything he’s ever felt before in his life.

The ace draws back stiffly, the last few spurts of cum landing across the fleshy plane of Oikawa’s tongue; it dribbles over the setter’s slack lips, but he quickly licks it up and swallows, dipping back in to lick the last drops from the head of Ushijima’s cock. The spiker looks down at him as he slurps so obscenely; he’s so aroused that he doesn’t even go soft. Even though Ushijima has cum a number of times, his balls hang heavy between his thighs, still so full of creamy, potent cum that he plans to expend _all_ inside Oikawa.

“ _Please_ ,” Oikawa begs, chest heaving. He’s still in his binder. “Please fuck me –,”

Ushijima shoves him onto his back, tearing the binder over Oikawa’s head and tossing it away. The setter’s skin is marked from its tightness, but those delicious, rosy nipples cap the slight swell of Oikawa’s chest. Ushijima has never felt so hungry.

Oikawa whines as Ushijima’s teeth graze over his chest, that firm tongue licking down between them before lavishing attention over his nipples; they grow and harden beneath his tongue, coming away flushed and red. Oikawa grinds his hips, panting, pushing his face hard against Ushijima’s mouth.

“Suck harder, _god_ –,” Oikawa cries out as Ushijima bites down hard on one of his nipples, grinding the flesh between his teeth and tugging. The pain of it shoots through Oikawa’s body, right to his groin, each new bite making his condition even worse. If he doesn’t get fucked soon he might just scream. “Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me –_ ,”

“Show me you want it, then,” Ushijima snarls in response, spitting the words against Oikawa’s cheek before kissing him hotly, shoving two fingers deep inside the setter’s dripping pussy; it clenches around his fingers, sucking him in, desperate for something, _anything._

Oikawa lifts himself onto his hands and his knees; his elbows and knees are shaking, and he drops his chest to the ground so his ass is high in the air, back arched beautifully. It’s the most primal of positions – perfect for mounting.

Perfect for breeding.

The sight of Oikawa’s cunt so needy and flushed and slick is enough to have Ushijima’s cock raging hard. He gets to his knees, trying to steady his shaking hands as he positions the head of his cock at Oikawa’s hole. The folds kiss the head of his cock, seeming to suck him in before he even penetrates. “It wants me,” he breathes. Oikawa tries to push his hips back but Ushijima holds him firmly by the hips.

“Please,” Oikawa repeats; this time his voice is torn by a sob.

Ushijima snaps.

He slams his hips forwards, his cock pushing into Oikawa in one slick thrust. The setter shrieks, his back arching even deeper and his hips quivering. The head of Ushijima’s cock has bullied past the tight ring of his hymen and is pressed flush against Oikawa’s cervix, huge and thick and hot.

Ushijima doesn’t take the time to pace himself. He can’t. There’s a fire burning at the base of his spine that he can’t put out; it spurs him on like a wild horse, the kind that foam at the mouth with wild eyes and heavy breaths. He pulls out slowly, watching as the sticky strings of precum draw out between them; his cock is already dripping with Oikawa’s juices, the lips of his cunt dragging along Ushijima, desperate to keep him inside. Then Ushijima slams inside again, hard enough to send Oikawa jerking a little over the floor, the breath kicked clean out of his lungs.

His pace is brutal. Ushijima’s hips pound powerfully, his thrusts deep and long and fast. The room is hot and smells like sex already, full of Oikawa’s wan moaning and the sound of wet slapping skin. Ushijima is so consumed by pleasure he can barely see, his cock enveloped by the tightest heat he’s ever experienced in his _life_ ; he’s quite convinced he could fuck Oikawa forever.

Of course he’d wanted to fuck him long before this. Whenever he’d seen Oikawa with his powerful body and milky skin, the ace’s immediate reaction had been lust. And now here he is, buried balls-deep inside the beautiful, limber setter.

Like hell he’s going to go easy.

“I’m going crazy,” Oikawa moans, his voice high and breathless. Ushijima’s hands slam down to the floor on either side of his head, then, that huge powerful body bending further over his and hammering deeper, deeper, _deeper –_

“Cum,” Ushijima snarls and bites down hard on the setter’s ear. His thrusts only become stronger at this angle; he can use his weight to drive himself down, and soon Ushijima’s body is smothering Oikawa’s into the floor, only their hips moving in deep, fast thrusts. They’ve ceased to be humans – they’re only animals, now, lost in the heat of sex. “Squirt all over my cock.”

The words do it. Oikawa lets out a muffled scream, humping his hips up as much as he can as he cums – _finally –_ a pressure being released from the deepest parts of him. His body shakes, convulses, moves in ways it’s never moved before until he collapses boneless against the floor. His consciousness is in pieces and all he can do it breathe.

Ushijima, however, isn’t finished. The sight of Oikawa collapsed half-unconscious beneath him – _because_ of him – drives him on, and he uses his hands to pull Oikawa’s limp hips into the air again, mustering all his strength to bring him through that last stretch.

He uses Oikawa like a doll, the setter only managing a few weak whines; his cunt is a wet, sopping mess between his legs and Ushijima’s passage is easy and slick. He pounds at Oikawa’s cunt, his skin searing as his abdomen coils tight and hot. “Inside you,” Ushijima breathes harshly. “Drink it all up –,” He grits his teeth against a groan as he stills, pressing himself deep inside Oikawa as he cums, load after load of thick white cum pouring into the setter beneath him. Oikawa’s hips buck weakly against his grip, his walls throbbing around Ushijima’s cock, tightening as he feels the ace unloading himself.

Ushijima sits back on his haunches, breathing hard. His cock slips from Oikawa’s cunt and the setter collapses once more against the floor, globs of cum dribbling from his raw, gaping hole. His chest heaves as he gathers his breath, a strange sort of serenity descending upon him. It’s a cold, calm kind of peacefulness that is strangely akin to determination.

_He’s mine._

That’s all Ushijima thinks as he looks down at Oikawa. Raw, unparalleled possessiveness. As far as Ushijima is concerned, nobody else will have Oikawa Tōru. No other man will ever fuck him boneless, no other man will leave him with cum dripping out of his body.

Nobody.

_He’s mine._

Ushijima flips Oikawa over onto his back, hovering over him. Oikawa is beautifully dishevelled and still recovering, but Ushijima kisses him deeply anyway, placing a broad hand against his chest and feeling as it rises and falls, as Oikawa’s heartbeat flutters beneath the touch. “I will have you always,” Ushijima breathes against Oikawa’s sweet, blood-filled lips. Oikawa, hazily, can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. He decides he doesn’t care.

“Fuck me again,” Oikawa whispers in response, letting his thighs drop open as Ushijima settles between them. “Fuck me forever. I could have your dick in me forever. I don’t care what happens.” And then he fixes Ushijima with a catlike smile, slack and lazy and knowing. “Because you’ll take care of me no matter what happens.”

They’re both acutely aware of what he’s talking about; Ushijima’s gut tightens and his hand wanders between their bodies, gathering the cum that’s escaped onto Oikawa’s thighs and pushing it back inside his pussy with two thick fingers. He kisses him again.

“Yes.”

 _I’m drunk,_ Oikawa thinks. But he doesn’t care. Ushijima feels too good – his cock is too good and feels far too perfect when it splits him open, when it forces its way inside him. Oikawa’s body thirsts for it, demands it, hungers for Ushijima’s powerful cum. He knows that the more he indulges himself the worse this addiction will become, but he doesn’t care, he just _doesn’t._ Ushijima’s hands press his thighs apart, thumbs moving to spread Oikawa’s pussy apart so he can see everything clearly; the setter’s clit throbs at Ushijima’s scrutiny.

“Don’t look at me like that…” Oikawa lets out a giddy little laugh and makes to close his legs; Ushijima doesn’t let him.

Neither of them are really sure how long they stayed there. They’re too caught up in their hazy little cocoon, drowning in each other; they’re not thinking, not in the slightest. They’re only feeling, fucking. They’re not speaking. They just moan and grunt and breathe. They sweat and writhe and buck and scream and there’s nothing graceful or elegant about it – it’s messy and violent and desperate, and they both know it, but to them it all holds a curious kind of allure.

Oikawa lies on his back beneath Ushijima’s heaving, hulking form; he looks like he’s dying, his entire body raw and bruised and shaking. His face is a mess, his hair knotted, hands scrabbling at the ace’s shoulders. Ushijima keeps his eyes wide and focussed on that face, because to him it’s the rawest and most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. All of Oikawa has been stripped away to _this_ , to his purest form, and to Ushijima there is nothing more delightful than that. He passes a tender hand down the side of Oikawa’s face, his thrusts slow and lazy and deep, the setter’s breath coming in quiet little gasps instead of shrieks. Oikawa doesn’t have to ask to be kissed; at some point Ushijima just _knew_ , and he leans down to meet Oikawa’s warm, soft tongue.

He feels like he’s drowning.

Ushijima’s body drops to grind along the length of Oikawa’s, feeling each lean, defined muscle and each string of sinew, each soft hair from each pore, every pulse of that racing heart. The ace’s back is raw from Oikawa’s fingernails, his neck and shoulders red and purple and mottled with hickeys and bite-marks in various forms.

“More,” Oikawa moans as he arches up his body, forcing orgasm after orgasm and load after load from the spiker. Ushijima never fails to provide, of course, each load as thick and intoxicating as the last. He holds Ushijima’s sweat-slick body close, the heat as unbearable as it is arousing.

Ushijima’s mind wanes as the sky becomes dark. He cums, gasping against Oikawa’s cheek or his neck, or perhaps pressing that gorgeous face into the floor, or against the wall. They’ve been at it for hours and it’s no surprise to Ushijima when Oikawa’s body eventually gives out to exhaustion, thighs glistening with cum, body bloated with it.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa blinks a few times, dazedly, the ceiling swimming a little above him. It’s dark – he can hear the beating of the rain against the trees outside, and as he weakly raises himself onto his elbows he catches sight of Ushijima opening the screens to the veranda. The rain catches the moonlight as it falls.

When Ushijima turns he sees Oikawa gazing at him; he doesn’t switch on the lights, instead going over to ease himself down onto the soft tatami mats beside where Oikawa lies. The setter rolls over onto his stomach, grimacing a little as sticky cum oozes out of him; nausea swims in the pit of Oikawa’s gut, but he knows it’s too late to do anything now.

“If I get a kid I might have to castrate you,” he says glumly as he looks out at the rain, voice barely audible over the thunder against the roof tiles.

“I know of a medication you can take tomorrow that will eradicate that risk,” Ushijima replies evenly. Oikawa glances sharply at him.

“You do?”

Ushijima nods and all of Oikawa’s tight anxiety is released like a flood, each muscle in his body relaxing in its wake. He lowers his head onto his arms and sighs. A moment of silence passes between them, and then Oikawa sits up, Ushijima extending a hand to make sure he doesn’t fall. Oikawa petulantly climbs into Ushijima’s lap, reaching down and stroking over his abdomen, turning around to face him and tug at his lower lip.

“You may have exhausted me,” Ushijima admits as Oikawa kisses along his jaw. Bright eyes meet his and Oikawa’s body sinks further into his lap, a delightful little smirk lighting his features.

“Have I found your weakness, Ushiwaka-chan?” he asks, plucking the ace’s lip with his fingers before pressing a teasing kiss to his mouth. Oikawa raises himself a little before sinking down onto Ushijima’s cock, which he’d managed to stroke to full hardness again, and he rides it leisurely, breath grazing over his teeth. “Maybe I should just… fuck you before each match…”

Ushijima’s brow puckers and his lips open a little; he doesn’t reply, choosing to kiss Oikawa’s neck deeply.

“I can still feel you in me,” Oikawa murmurs against Ushijima’s cheek as he rides him, slowly, sloppily. He can reach so much deeper at this angle. “There’s so much in me…” He smiles wickedly, teeth nipping at Ushijima’s jaw. “You’ve got so much. You should go find a nice girl, marry her, knock her up and have a brood of little brats –,”

Ushijima flips Oikawa onto his back, pinning his arms above his head and gazing insistently down at him.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Oikawa’s teeth glint in the darkness and he knows he certainly did.

“I will have you,” Ushijima snarls as he leans in close. Oikawa shivers. “I will have nobody else.”

“And what if I don’t want you?” Oikawa pants in reply, his hips stuttering as Ushijima grinds inside him as deep as he can, the full girth of his cock still stretching the setter out to the point of a sting.

“Nobody else can give you what you need.” Ushijima punctuates his words by a hard, deep thrust, and Oikawa groans, body arching away from the floor. “You have no choice but to want me.”

Oh, the horror of it all… Ushijima knocking Oikawa up? Had Oikawa thought of such a thing two weeks ago he would have been disgusted, horrified. But now the thought serves little other purpose than to make his body throb with arousal.

Oikawa pulls Ushijima’s head down to kiss him, deep and slow. They fuck like that for an hour, maybe more, merely enjoying the feel of each other, building themselves incredibly slowly to an orgasm they reach together, lost in a filthy kind of intimacy that scares Oikawa as much as it titillates him. The setter’s back is drenched in sweat, his whole body glistening with it. He’s not sure where his body ends and where Ushijima’s begins, because now – as far as Oikawa’s hazed mind is concerned – they’re becoming one, melting like wax all over each other.

 _I have no choice but to want you._ Oikawa chuckles in abandon as he yanks Ushijima’s hair, levering him onto his back as he rides him, hips rolling slackly and his body covered in love bites and teeth marks. He knows that more than a few bruises are going to show up in the morning. He also knows that he’ll probably regret all of this in the morning, but right now he’s drunk on cum and Ushijima’s powerful body and he really couldn’t care less. He doesn’t feel entirely himself, but he doesn’t care about that either, the complete fullness so much better than anything he could have imagined. It’s as though Ushijima’s cock is fucking into him right until the back of his throat.

Ushijima gazes up through heavy eyes at Oikawa as he rolls his hips; he sinks his fingers into the flesh of Oikawa’s hips, kneading them over the already-appearing bruises, pressing his thumbs over the hard swell nestled in the middle of Oikawa’s pelvis. _He’s full_ , Ushijima thinks and licks his lips, feeding on the thought of Oikawa being bloated with his cum, vulnerable and unprotected, perfect and ripe for the taking. For all he knows his seed could be taking root right now, binding Oikawa to him in a way Ushijima had never imagined possible.

Oikawa gasps as Ushijima bucks up into him; the setter’s fingers scrape down Ushijima’s chest, the cock inside him growing even larger. Ushijima had pounded him senseless for hours, cumming in him again and again and he’s _still_ got energy… Oikawa has already collapsed once from exhaustion. His body seems to move all on its own, rocking and humping itself down on the thick, meaty cock inside him; when his cunt is aching and raw and stinging he uses his mouth instead, his tongue dipping beneath the foreskin, sucking on the head and letting Ushijima fuck his throat.

“You said we’d… sort this out,” Ushijima grunts, and Oikawa is pleased to hear his breath coming in harsh gasps.

“Yeah, but you need to fuck me first…” Oikawa lets his head tip back, exposing the slender line of his throat, and he moans. “Everything else can wait.”

There’s something incredibly arousing to Oikawa in the image of him staggering home full of cum and carrying his sworn rival’s baby. He likes imagining what it would have been like if he’d been forced, it Ushijima had held him down and fucked him against his will, making him fat and huge with his baby –

Oikawa shudders, cumming again; clear liquid squirts from between his legs as he grinds himself down as far as he can go, the muscles in his legs tensing and his throat grasping for as much air as it can.

He voices his thoughts to Ushijima when he comes down from his high. “You should rape me,” he says, drawing a long finger down Ushijima’s torso, still fully seated on his cock, which twitches appreciatively inside him at his words. Ushijima gazes at him incredulously, but he can’t deny that he finds it erotic… and it’s not like the thought of pushing Oikawa down and raping him hadn’t occurred to him before.

“Should I?” he breathes as he shoves Oikawa back onto his back, the setter squealing in shock as his head hits the mats. “Should I rape you? Hold you down and force you to take my cock… maybe I should fuck your ass.” The ace’s lips split into a feral grin and Oikawa’s blood runs cold, his cunt throbbing. He’s never had anything in his asshole before. “Split it open until you’re _screaming_.”

Oikawa doesn’t think he can cum anymore, but he does, his chest heaving and hips gyrating wildly. Ushijima licks a wet stripe from Oikawa’s collarbone to his chin, sucking and biting at the soft flesh of his neck until there’s a bouquet of beautiful dark marks. As Oikawa screams in orgasm beneath him, those sticky walls tightening around him, he lets out a final groan and releases himself deep inside Oikawa; the fresh cum pushes out some from before, Oikawa’s cunt too impossibly full to hold anymore, and it gushes out onto the floor, sticky and white and thick.

He collapses down next to the setter, breathing hard. They’ve fucked themselves out and Oikawa looks ready to pass out again – Ushijima pulls the limp body towards his own, pushing his face into Oikawa’s damp hair. Oikawa whines a little at the touch, his body instinctively curling into Ushijima’s. For a moment they lie there in the dark, their sweat cooling and breath slowly returning to them.

“I’m such an idiot,” Oikawa croaks, his voice trembling. Ushijima strokes his jaw, kissing the crown of his head again. “Such an idiot. What am I doing? What am I doing?”

Ushijima doesn’t reply to him. Instead he closes his eyes, pressing his face into Oikawa’s neck for a few long seconds, just savouring the feel of him. Oikawa doesn’t move away, and he remembers the way Ushijima had looked down at him at the training camp after Oikawa had tried on the binder, eyes so full of affection, hands warm and safe against his face.

And he doesn’t hate it. All the hate has been fucked out of him, quite literally.

“I hate you,” he manages anyway, though his words are weak and obviously a lie. Even Ushijima can tell.

They lie there for a while, just breathing, until Ushijima gets up a little time later and begins to pad about. Through Oikawa’s half-closed eyes he can see as Ushijima lights the small hearth in the sunken fire pit. Then he disappears, but quickly returns wearing trousers and holding a blanket, which he dutifully wraps Oikawa in and brings him closer to the warmth. And so there they sit, silent, a gentle breeze blowing in from the north.

Oikawa falls asleep in Ushijima’s lap, the ace’s fingers stroking his hair and his face. Oikawa is strangely mindless of his own nakedness, something he’d always been so humiliated by before. But he doesn’t mind, not now. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles as Ushijima gathers him into his arms. Ushijima hushes him gently as he takes him up the stairs; Oikawa’s head lies in the crook of Ushijima’s shoulder and he can smell him very strongly.

“Lie with me,” Oikawa breathes after Ushijima settles him down into a bed; he catches Ushijima’s wrist as he makes to leave. “Just… for a bit. Please.”

Ushijima settles down beside him, pulling the covers over them both and gathering the setter’s body close to his own. He strokes his hand up and down Oikawa’s spine, feeling him breathe.

Oikawa’s body is softer than Ushijima’s, that is true. But there’s nothing feminine about him – there never has been. Ushijima gazes down at Oikawa as he sleeps, drawing a finger down the side of his face. His face has always been slender, his features angular and sharp; he’s always been masculine, the way he stood with his chin high and shoulders thrown back, his spine straight and eyes never afraid to meet others’. He’s bursting with glittering confidence, with strength.

But Oikawa isn’t strong, not entirely. Ushijima can see that now, when Oikawa is stripped to his rawest; he’s scared, he’s alone, and he’s vulnerable.

 _I’ll protect him_ , Ushijima tells himself. _No matter what it takes._

 

 

_I’ll protect him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall know me, i'm a sucker for angst, so get prepared for some angsty oikawa :3c
> 
> in other news there are 2 things i want to apologise for:
> 
> 1\. the mess that is this chapter. i don't even know what i'm writing anymore so i hope this all makes sense lol cus it only goes downhill from here. but like for real please be critical of my writing because i need to improve ;o;
> 
> 2\. my liberal use of semi-colons. i fuckin love them more than i love myself.
> 
> anyway there's now like 4 or 5 chapters for this fic...... god knows how i'm gonna come up with words that start with D and end with -tion for the chapter names. i'm bad at naming chapters as it is smfh. if you have any suggestions please tell me oh my goooddddd


	4. Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is -500/10 proofed and im uploading this in a Major Hurry so please excuse the mistakes!!!
> 
> I have assessment and i'm going skiing for a few weeks (hella) so idk when the next update will be!!!! just so u know why if it's late ;o;
> 
> also oikawa does use the morning after pill in this chapter (sorry guys......); just thought i'd tack on a warning in case it squicks anyone out.

Oikawa stirs groggily. He squints against the pale light filtering through the high window – the sheets are warm and smell like sandalwood and washing powder and he snuggles down into them, blocking out the light with a pillow over his face. He snoozes like that for a few moments before jerking fully awake at the sudden realisation that this isn’t _his_ room and it sure as hell isn’t _his_ bed – no, no, it’s Ushijima’s… he must’ve carried him here during the night. He remembers now. Rubbing his eyes he sinks back down, his body aching. But he’s clean, no trace of the sticky cum he very vividly remembers.

Ushijima is nowhere to be seen. Oikawa, vaguely pissed off at nothing in particular (though probably Ushijima), marches over to Ushijima’s wardrobe and throws it open. He pulls on one of his shirts and a pair of dark blue boxer briefs, which are really too large for him. But they don’t fall down, and that’s all Oikawa cares about.

He can finally see the bedroom in proper light; it’s wide with an angled ceiling, the beams exposed much like the storey below, the walls just as neat and panelled in what he suspects to be bamboo or something of the sort. It’s clean and has not a sign of clutter whatsoever. He has a shelf on which various trophies are displayed, photographs of Ushijima’s teams, all with his face completely neutral and unreadable. The room is strangely empty, but there are a number of small potted plants arranged on the broad sill of the window, each labelled with a piece of white tape.

 _Names,_ Oikawa realises. A flush begins to creep up his cheeks. _He named them._

He shakes his head and eases himself out of the bedroom, navigating himself down the hall and towards the stairs. He can hear noise from the kitchen, and he assumes it is Ushijima; Oikawa hops down the last two steps, flinching a little at the ache in his groin as he does so, opening his mouth as he enters the kitchen to give Ushijima a well-deserved earful.

He freezes.

A woman, in the middle of unpacking groceries, blinks at him in shock. She’s tall wit a broad, enchanting face lined with age; her hair is dark and laced with grey, her eyes black as coal and her skin dark as though she’d spent years and years under the sun. The only way Oikawa realises that she’s a relation of Ushijima’s is the way she holds herself. Her shoulders are broad and straight, and she holds herself with glaring confidence that doesn’t so much as stutter when she sees Oikawa. If anything she inflates, growing somehow larger in his presence. She leans one hand on the table, the other propped up on an angular hip.

“Oh,” she says, her voice deep and rich as honey. “You must be Oikawa.”

Oikawa stands there with his mouth open like a fish. “Ah, yes,” he stammers finally. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Wakatoshi’s mother,” she tells him kindly, her face easing into a pleasant smile, placing down the cans of tuna she’d been unpacking and rounding the kitchen island, taking one of Oikawa’s hands into her own and inclining her head.

“Thank you for accommodating me,” Oikawa mumbles, face flushed with embarrassment. He’s suddenly awkward, not sure what to do with himself – here he is standing in front of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s _mother_ while wearing Ushijima’s clothes, his _underwear_ of all things, and – perhaps most horrifyingly of all – with her son’s cum still gurgling around inside him. Oikawa presses a nervous hand against his abdomen.

“Well, now that you’re here you might as well help me.” She picks up the cans again and hands one to Oikawa. He looks down at her hand. Her fingernails are exactly the same shape as her son’s.

He’s glad for something to do. As they work he sneaks glances at the woman out of the corner of his eye – he’d never thought about what Ushijima’s mother would be like, but somehow he hadn’t expected this. She’s regal, in a way, with very much the same countenance as her son. He’s used to small, delicate, soft mothers with sunny faces and meticulously coloured hair. Ushijima’s mother isn’t like that. She has a face as dark as a storm, hair shot through with proud grey that she’s obviously not afraid to leave alone. She isn’t like his own mother, or any other mother he knows, for that matter. Japanese children, Oikawa knows, spend most of their childhoods out in the sun, resulting in skin tanned brown as berries; but as they grow up the women cover themselves in powders and cream, keeping indoors to try and stay pale and soft, like talcum cakes. Ushijima’s mother, however, is hard in all the ways the other mothers are soft, more like some rich, well-worked pastry than a dainty little cupcake. But even though she’s hard, she’s also kind. Oikawa can feel it in his bones and as they work she makes idle small talk.

He likes it.

“Where is Ushiwa – Wakatoshi?” Oikawa finally asks, licking his lips. The name sounds odd – it _feels_ odd – coming from his mouth.

“Oh, he’s gone out. Not sure what for. He should be back soon, though. He told me you were here – if he hadn’t I might have had a stroke!” She laughs, a hand pressed to her chin; even her laugh is loud and bold and golden, coming from deep within her chest. Oikawa quite likes it.

When they finish she makes him tea and they sit at the kitchen island as the sky begins to grow warmer, the clouds remaining from the storm the night before finally washing away into a crisp blue sky.

“I thought you hated my son,” the woman remarks slyly as she stirs her tea. From her expression, she knows exactly what buttons she’s pushing, and is probably aware that something is going on between Oikawa and her son. Oikawa flushes a little, embarrassed that she’d bring it up; obviously Ushijima had told her something, and he makes a note to interrogate him later. “I was a little surprised when he told me you were here.”

“‘Keep your enemies closer’, isn’t that how the saying goes?” he replies without missing a beat. Ushijima may be as dense as two posts, but his mother certainly isn’t. The woman smiles at him, her broad lips revealing a line of perfect teeth.

Before they can say anything more the front door opens, the sound of someone – surely Ushijima – entering and heading towards the kitchen.

“Nice of you to show up,” Oikawa says dryly when he sees him. Ushijima looks at him calmly, nodding once to his mother.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” he asks Oikawa; the setter sighs and stands, bowing a little to Ushijima’s mother before following Ushijima out into the hall. Once out of earshot from the kitchen Ushijima produces a small paper bag, inside which is a small box. He hands it to Oikawa.

When Oikawa realises what it is his stomach drops like a stone.

“You don’t have to –,” Ushijima begins, voice cautious and hand still outstretched.

“I do.” Oikawa rubs his eyes, clutching the box against his chest. “Come with me.”

Ushijima follows him to the bathroom and hands him a glass of water as Oikawa pops open the box and empties a pill into his palm. Ushijima stands close to him, one hand steady on the small of his back.

“This can’t happen again,” Oikawa says before throwing back the pill.

He’s not disturbed by it. It’s more an inconvenience than anything, and if he’s angry it’s at his own blind stupidity. He promises himself it won’t happen again, but he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stop himself. Besides, there might not be anything there at all, but the chances are too great for him to risk it.

“If something was to happen, something serious,” Ushijima says in a low voice, his eyes downturned. “You know I would take responsibility.”

Oikawa’s gut clenches and tears spring to his eyes; he’s too used to hating Ushijima to even entertain the thought of having his kid. He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes again and pushing the box back into Ushijima’s hands. “Well, you won’t need to, because I’m not going to risk it again. Understand?”

Ushijima blinks, then nods.

“Oikawa,” he calls when the setter makes to leave the bathroom.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Oikawa slowly returns to Ushijima’s side and lets the ace take his face into his hands, just like at camp, thumbs rubbing gently over his cheeks. And then Ushijima kisses him, lips closed, sweet and pure. It’s more of a promise than anything else, the final draining of Oikawa’s hate, the consolidation of the feelings Ushijima has felt for Oikawa Tōru ever since middle school.

Ushijima had thrown their clothes in the wash the night before; they’re dry now, soft and warm, and Oikawa gratefully pulls them on. It’s Thursday, and he’s thankful his parents were both working last night and didn’t come home to find him absent. They take the same train back to Sendai, sitting silently side-by-side, Oikawa biting hard into his knuckles as the full force of what he’d just done sinks in. It’s only when Ushijima takes his fist away from his mouth and holds it in his own hand that Oikawa manages to relax.

“You said your brother is due for surgery,” Oikawa says vaguely, not intending the statement to go anywhere. He just had to say it.

“Yes. Would… you ever consider it?”

“What, surgery?”

Ushijima nods.

Oikawa turns to gaze out the window. “I dunno. Sometimes. I mean… I’m not a girl, so what’s the point in having the same sex as one? It seems a bit redundant to me. But I guess it doesn’t really matter once my chest goes flat. Nobody’s gonna see anyway.”

Ushijima is silent and says nothing until Oikawa turns to look at him again, lines of obvious exhaustion etched deep beneath his eyes. He rubs a reassuring thumb over the back of Oikawa’s hand.

“I’m not gay, Ushiwaka-chan. I don’t know what I am. I like anyone who’s beautiful, no matter what they might be or see themselves as.”

“What about a family?”

Oikawa snorts. “Volleyball comes first and always will. I might have a family one day, who knows. I don’t think about that. Whatever happens, happens.”

Ushijima can understand that. He shares the same opinion – sure, he might settle down and have a family one day, but for the moment his career is his only focus. It just so happens that Oikawa neatly factors into that, for which he’s lucky, because otherwise he’d have two hopeless obsessions on his hands.

Neither of them have ever wanted families of their own. They’d never thought about having children. And yet Oikawa had just taken a contraceptive because they’d been fucking like rabbits all night.

“You’re clean, right?” Oikawa asks suddenly.

“Yes, I showered this morning –,”

Oikawa wants to scream. “No, you _dolt_ ,” he snips. “Clean from STIs.”

“Oh. Yes, I am. I was tested last month… I try to make it a habit. You can see the papers later if you like.”

Oikawa believes him. He shakes his head.

“What about you?”

Oikawa chews on the inside of his lip and doesn’t say anything.

“Oikawa?”

“I was a virgin.”

Silence stretches taut between them. Ushijima averts his eyes down to his knees and stares, his thumb – which had previously been dancing along the back of Oikawa’s hand – coming to a stop.

“You don’t have to feel bad or anything,” Oikawa dismisses him in a mumble.

“If I’d have known I would have been gentler.”

Oikawa snorts. “Why?” he asks incredulously, finally turning his full attention back to the man beside him. Gentleness had been the _last_ thing he’d wanted.

“First times like that are meant to be special, aren’t they?” Ushijima asks mildly, not particularly looking for an answer.

“It was special.” Oikawa mumbles it, barely audible, looking away as he does.

There’s a pause, like a heartbeat, and the train pulls into a station closer to the city. People file through the doors as they hiss open, and suddenly the carriage is filled with a low murmur of voices speaking to nobody in particular, a ubiquitous hum more like television static than anything. They remain silent until the doors close and the train departs again, picking up speed. Ushijima’s thumb slowly begins stroking again.

“What about your first time? Was that special?” Oikawa is suddenly curious, though he’s hesitant to ask. But, he reasons, after everything that’s happened, what more is a question like that anyway?

“In junior high school. With my piano teacher.”

Oikawa’s mouth drops open. “ _Seriously_? In junior high? With your _teacher_?”

Ushijima nods, not seeming in the least embarrassed about it.

“Tell me how it happened.” It’s a long ride to Sendai and Oikawa just wants to listen to Ushijima speak.

Ushijima exhales and leans back against his seat. “I don’t think about it much. I just remember the weather being very warm, even though it was sometime in autumn, I think. She was a very beautiful woman… I remember her hands. They were long and very talented. She was a pianist, understandably, and I loved watching her play. She said she enjoyed watching me, too. She’d watch me very intently whenever I would play. On that day she stopped me, I remember, and took my hand by the wrist. She kissed it, in the centre of my palm. My hands were large, even then.” He holds out his free hand, flexing his fingers and falling silent for a moment as he reflects. “She told me how handsome my hands were. How handsome I was. She told me that I must have all the girls in love with me, but I didn’t, or at least I didn’t know it. I didn’t care about girls. She held my hand and kissed me on the lips… she was wearing red lipstick. I could taste it.

“I can’t quite recall what happened between that moment and the next; before I knew it I was on my back on the floor and she was above me, her shirt open. I remember one hand still on the keyboard, and every now and again it would shake and hold down the key. It was a G, I believe. She had on a black lace bra I found quite beautiful. It was mesmerising against her skin, which was pale as the moon. I don’t remember feeling much in the way of sexual gratification – in fact I believe I felt nothing at all. I was not aroused, and yet she still managed to put me inside her. Back then I was large, even as a boy, and she was slim but tall, taller than me when she wore high heels. But she always seemed bigger, I suppose because she was an adult. I had never seen anybody like that… I had never seen anyone act like that. She moved her body strangely, all her angles turning into curves. She became very soft… she would moan and ask me if I liked it, and of course I said yes. I did, in a way. She was an artful woman and I enjoyed looking at her.”

“What happened after that?” Oikawa asks quietly, transfixed on the image of the pale, dark-haired woman with her long hands and red lipstick that Ushijima had so meticulously formed in his mind’s eye.

“Oh, I’m not sure. She resigned shortly after and I never heard from her again.”

Oikawa sits silent for a few moments, wondering if she’d taken in Ushijima’s cum like he had, if she’d begged for it like he had, if she’d gone away because she’d gotten pregnant… or something. Oikawa hopes beyond hope that isn’t the case – the thought of someone else carrying Ushijima’s child makes a rare conflagration of jealousy (or possessiveness, perhaps?) rise up inside him. “Do you ever think about her?”

“No.” The confession is frank, unfeeling.

Sitting up, Oikawa takes Ushijima’s other hand and kisses the centre of his palm, right where he said his teacher had. There was nothing erotic about Ushijima’s story – it was masterfully told, certainly, despite its simplicity. It retained the dreaminess of a child, and Oikawa has to remind himself that Ushijima still was a child when he lost his virginity. “Don’t think of her again.”

Ushijima presses a small smile that Oikawa can’t see. “I won’t.”

 

After they arrive in Sendai they find themselves stood on the same platform, side-by-side, silent. Ushijima has to head to another platform to catch his connection, though he lingers for a little, obviously reluctant to leave Oikawa’s side. Oikawa, secretly, doesn’t want him to go either.

“Someone might think you’re a stalker,” Oikawa snips, though his voice is softer than it usually is. “Hanging around me like this.”

Ushijima would have kissed him. But the platform is crowded and he can’t, so instead he touches Oikawa’s collar once before turning around and leaving. Oikawa watches his back until he’s out of sight.

It’s only then he can breathe – it’s like being yanked from a dream, or falling out of bed. Oikawa is suddenly alone, unsure whether or not everything that had happened had been real or not.

When he arrives at school Iwaizumi confronts him almost immediately, appearing suddenly in front of him with overtly curious eyes and dark eyebrows pulled low over them. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched up around his ears, rigid with discontent. His entire posture is an accusation.

“You fucked him again, didn’t you?”

Oikawa holds up his hands meekly in defence. “It just _happened_ , Iwa-chan!”

“It always _just happens_.” Iwaizumi continues to grumble as they head towards their classroom, his blazer slung carelessly over his left shoulder. “We were supposed to study together, what the fuck? You can’t just bail and not tell me.”

“I didn’t mean to stand you up, don’t get all bitter about it.” Iwaizumi punches him in the shoulder and Oikawa, finally, laughs.

“Hey, Iwa-chan, can I tell you something?” Oikawa asks just before they go into the classroom.

“Yeah, of course.”

Oikawa tells him of what had happened, how Ushijima had fucked him all night, of meeting Ushijima’s mother, of taking the pill. Iwaizumi’s frown deepens the longer Oikawa talks.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself up, you know that?”

Oikawa nods glumly. Iwaizumi sighs and throws his arm around Oikawa’s shoulders all the same, though, yanking him into the room and ruffling his hair. “Look – don’t worry about it, okay? You’re gonna have to keep your distance or admit that you can’t resist him. You’re gonna have to make up your mind sometime – you can’t just keep riding the fence. Dumbass.”

But Oikawa doesn’t want to choose, because he knows what his choice would be, and he isn’t quite ready for that yet. His body certainly is, sure, but he doesn’t know if his mind could weather it. He remembers the way Ushijima had stood so close to him in the bathroom and how he’d held his hand in the train. Iwaizumi had always said he had no impulse control, and Oikawa realises it’s true. He’s just going to wind up hurt in the end, just like when his knee gave out and he couldn’t play for weeks. All because he couldn’t control himself.

 

“Would you have his kid, though? Ushiwaka, I mean.” Iwaizumi rocks on his chair during lunch, chewing on the end of his pen as he tries to catch up on his late English homework. Oikawa blinks at him, shocked that he’d ask a question like that, and a little annoyed that he hadn’t already dropped the subject.

“Well – I mean I’ve never really –,” Oikawa can’t reply. He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it – of course he has. But he’s never seriously considered it. “Iwa-chan, you can’t just ask that. Having a kid is a big responsibility. Besides, I don’t know if I could handle it… mentally… it’s just a reminder of something I don’t want to be.”

“Yeah, well, you obviously had no issue with begging Ushiwaka to cum inside you while knowing _full well_ that you could get very, _very_ pregnant.”

“That was a _fetish_ , oh my God!” Oikawa hisses. He has to bite back a shiver at the thought of being ‘very’ pregnant with Ushijima’s child, though. “It’s not like I want to raise a litter of his kids!”

Iwaizumi leans in. “Oikawa, listen to me. You listening?”

Oikawa nods glumly.

“Having kids doesn’t make you any less of a guy.”

The setter flushes hotly and adjusts his collar. “Look, I’m not going to make any huge life decisions now. We haven’t even graduated, I don’t want to think about kids! Let alone with Ushiwaka. Gross.” He sucks at the straw of his juicebox petulantly, glowering at the top of his desk. But Iwaizumi is still looking at him in that knowing way that had always set Oikawa’s teeth on edge; he knows Oikawa is only preserving his own dignity. Nonchalantly, Iwaizumi shrugs and goes back to his homework.

“Whatever you say, jackass. Jeez.”

 _Doesn’t make me less of a guy…_ Oikawa turns Iwaizumi’s words over in his head again and again. Oikawa had never had any massive trouble looking at mirrors. He’d never suffered dysphoria to any frightening degree, mostly because his body had always been lean and muscled and _masculine._ His chest has never been large and as far as Oikawa is concerned, whatever people can’t see doesn’t matter.

But having kids… thinking about it outside of any sexual context is a bit… frightening.

He taps his straw against his lip. He _knows_ he’s too young to be thinking about this kind of thing, to be making these choices. Volleyball will always come first, of course, but he’d always separated family in an entirely different sphere. But Ushijima would be in the same circle as him, and so a family would be –

 _This is awful_ , Oikawa thinks, horrified with himself. _A family with Ushiwaka! That’s seriously terrifying._ But then he thinks some more and returns to the root image of himself swollen and dripping and needy, bound to Ushijima by his child, a vessel for breeding – Oikawa shakes his head sharply to rid himself of the visual, shifting his thighs a little closer together. _Fantasy and reality do not coincide_ , he tells himself firmly. _First rule of kink._ His submission to Ushijima isn’t realistic, not in his career, anyway. But somehow he knows Ushijima doesn’t see him as something inferior, even if he _does_ view him as something to be possessed. He used to be so convinced that he didn’t care about Oikawa as anything more than a pawn, what with all that ego talk after their matches; but he’d seen it in his eyes, in the way he looked at him, the way he touched him. Oikawa can only deny that sort of ownership for so long.

Oikawa shivers.

He tries not to think about it for the rest of the day, but that visual keeps surfacing, thought after damned thought of being inextricably connected to Ushijima, of being so heavy with his child(ren, even) that he can’t move, begging and whining and dripping with juices. He remembers how he’d fucked so viciously, very much like some kind of wild animal, forcing his cum as deep inside the setter’s body as he could. As the hours wear on Oikawa’s resistance begins to wear thin and he curses himself for not getting Ushijima’s phone number so he might be able to call him, at least, and listen to his voice until he can get off enough to calm down.

But he didn’t get his number. And he can’t calm down.

“You all right?” Matsukawa asks him, a little amused by the constant pink blush clinging to Oikawa’s cheeks.

“Fine,” Oikawa replies crisply and doesn’t speak another word. It’s only when he’s walking home with Iwaizumi does he speak, kicking a rock and sending it skittering across the asphalt as he does. “Can you believe it?” he laughs. “We’re talking about kids! _Having kids._ When we’re seventeen.”

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Iwaizumi agrees, chewing on a plastic toothpick as they walk. “But you’re the one who keeps putting yourself at risk –,”

“Shut _up_ , I know. I told you it’s not gonna happen again! Next time I’ll take rubbers myself if I have to.” He keeps walking and only a few paces later does he realise that Iwaizumi has stopped, stick suspended between his lips and eyes wide in amused shock. “What?”

“You’re gonna keep fucking him, then?” Iwaizumi asks, quite honestly bewildered. His shock makes Oikawa feel a little bit embarrassed.

“Well… yeah.”

Iwaizumi bursts out laughing. “Christ, you _hated_ him! I’ve never seen you hate someone so much in your life, holy shit, Tōru. C’mere.” He bounds forwards, pulling Oikawa’s head down and giving him a noogie that leaves the setter crying out for mercy; but he’s laughing, harder than he’s laughed since the bus ride back to Sendai. This time he doesn’t cry, either, because it feels good to make a choice. He’s freed himself, now.

“Tell him if he hurts you I’ll beat him to a pulp, hear?”

“Iwa-chan, he could bench you.”

“You have no faith. I think we’re pretty evenly matched.”

They bicker and banter all the way home, Iwaizumi reaching his house first and leaving Oikawa with a knowing look over his shoulder. Oikawa returns home, humming.

It’s still empty.

He opens his phone, and sure enough there’s a text from his mother. _Have to stay in Tokyo for another night – put money in the account for take-out! x_

He smiles down at his phone; he loves his mom dearly, but she’s not around much, not since she’d gotten promoted. He’s happy for her and enjoys the solitude, but he can’t deny that it gets a little lonely sometimes. He flings down his bag and heads to the shower to wash and change into a soft shirt and shorts, wriggling gratefully out of his binder.

Yeah, he likes being alone.

He flicks on the television after he settles on the sofa; he’s just in time for the new episode of his favourite drama. But his eyes slowly wander from the screen to the stack of telephone books beside the cabinet, and before he knows it he’s sitting on the floor in front of the television leafing through the thin, translucent paper until he finds the name he’s looking for. It takes him six tries before he gets the right number.

“Hello, Ushijima residence,” a voice says when the line picks up. Oikawa recognises it immediately.

“Hello, Mrs Ushijima? It’s Oikawa Tōru speaking. Is Ushiw –,” again, he corrects himself. “ – Wakatoshi there?”

“Oh, Oikawa-kun!” she exclaims when she recognises him. “Yes, he’s in his room. I’ll go and get him for you.” Oikawa waits patiently in the silence that follows, wriggling his toes a little anxiously. There’s a little click, and then the rich, deep voice of Ushijima Wakatoshi curls against his ear.

“Hello, Oikawa? Is there an emergency?”

“Yes. I’m lonely. Come over and tend to me, it’s very serious.”

“But loneliness isn’t exactly an emergency –,”

“Last offer, Ushiwaka-chan!” he sings, flipping the telephone book shut with his foot and kicking it back behind the television cabinet.

“Fine. Give me your address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Oikawa gives him his address and he can hear the faint scratch of a pencil against paper. He likes the idea of Ushijima Wakatoshi running around at his beck and call; it makes Oikawa feel in control of him, which he really does enjoy. After he hangs up he sits on his knees, chewing his lip and hatching an idea deep in his brain. It’s a dangerous one. Tingles shoot up Oikawa’s spine.

He vaults himself to his feet, practically falling over himself as he runs up the stairs to his parents’ room. He switches on the light to the walk-in wardrobe, probing around a little bit before finding a shallow, long box with silvery edges, bound in a bright red ribbon. It had been a gift to his mother from one of her friends; it had been a joke, though Oikawa didn’t really understand what was so funny about giving a full set of lingerie to somebody. The box had been opened once, on the day of its reception, and had remained untouched since. Oikawa steals it back to his own room, unravelling the packaging and tossing aside the lid. The underwear is wrapped in tissue paper – a bra, panties, and suspenders, all made of sheer black lace. Oikawa discards the bra; he doesn’t need it and doesn’t really like it. But he slips out of his shorts, pulling the panties up his long legs before wriggling into the suspenders. The straps hang loose down his thighs and he turns in the mirror, inspecting the curve of his ass in his reflection and pinching a little at the skin. Satisfied, he pulls on his shorts again, tucking up the straps so they’re hidden out of sight.

He’s got a while before Ushijima gets there, so he goes back to watching his drama, toes wriggling in anticipation. He wants sex, that’s a given, but he also finds himself craving the company of the non-sexual kind as well. Ushijima, he’s discovered, is comforting, like having a big dog or a fluffy blanket. His mind flickers back to the training camp, when Ushijima had put his hand on Oikawa’s thigh during the meeting, the rough palm warm and firm against his skin. The way he’d held his hand on the train, his fingers impossibly large and strong as they closed around the setter’s.

He’d felt safe. He needs to feel safe now, too.

A sudden burst of sound from the television pulls Oikawa from his reverie; he’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t realised how much time had passed. Ushijima could be here any minute.

As if on cue there’s a knock at the door. Oikawa, suddenly nervous, adjusts the hem of his shorts before going to answer it. His heart beats in his throat as he opens it to reveal Ushijima standing in the light of the front door. Silently, Oikawa steps aside and lets him in.

When Ushijima brushes past him Oikawa gets the first whiff of him; he smells the same as before, and it makes Oikawa’s heart settle a little bit. Padding barefoot down the hall he points to the living room. “Go in there. I’ll make tea.”

Oikawa can hear the tinny reverberation of the television from the living room as he sets about making tea for the both of them; he takes his time, enjoying the solitude of being alone while with company. Knowing someone is _there_ , filling at least part of the empty house, is better than being left in the dark. Even if it is Ushijima Wakatoshi, of all people.

He carries the tea out on a round wooden tray and sets it down on the coffee table. The harsh, white light of the television screen glances off the high bones of Ushijima’s face and his glimmering eyes. Taking a cup for himself, Oikawa hands the other to Ushijima and sits down beside him, letting the weight of his body sink into the cushions with a sigh.

“So about this emergency,” Ushijima begins with a sly little glance in Oikawa’s direction. The setter tosses his head and shrugs, resisting the urge to wriggle his way into Ushijima’s lap.

“Loneliness can be an emergency,” Oikawa argues without meeting the ace’s eyes. “And, in _my_ case, it is.”

He knows how far it is from Ushijima’s house to his own and the sentiment of Ushijima’s effort lodges in his chest like a clot in his heart. He tries his hardest not to let it show.

Ushijima chuckles, indulging in the pause to take a sip of his tea.

“It’s the only thing I’m allowed to make.” Oikawa grins a little, gazing down at the dark tea in his cup. “I usually end up setting something on fire.”

“A shame.” Ushijima’s eyes are on him, dragging over his face and his neck and his shoulders, all the way down to his knees and his feet. It’s as though Ushijima is trying to etch every swell and turn of his body into his memory deeply enough so that he’ll never, ever forget it.

“Let me guess, you’re a good cook, right?”

“I usually make my family’s meals, and they tell me that they’re good, so I suppose I am.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. _Of course he is._

“Put your hand on my leg.”

Ushijima blinks at him, confused. “Pardon?”

“Put your hand on my leg,” Oikawa repeats, and then picks up Ushijima’s hand by the wrist to place it there himself, high up on his thigh. The confused expression on the spiker’s face almost makes him want to laugh. “Hey, Ushiwaka-chan, what would you do if I told you I had a surprise?”

“I would be… surprised.”

Oikawa grits his teeth, leaning in a little. “Okay, what if I told you I could give you the surprise on one condition?”

Ushijima gazes at him evenly, his curiosity finally piqued. “What is the condition.” It isn’t a question.

“You’re not allowed to touch me,” Oikawa says as he smiles a thin, catlike smile. “If you do, the game’s off.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi has never been one to back down from a challenge. “All right, then. I agree.”

The hand sitting on Oikawa’s thigh is nudged up a little bit until the tips of his fingers graze the hem of Oikawa’s shorts; Oikawa’s hand is tugging, urging Ushijima’s touch forwards, and warm fingers dip beneath his shorts until they come into contact with the thin elastic straps of the suspenders he’s wearing under his clothes. Oikawa’s eyes glitter as he glances up at Ushijima, whose own eyes are riveted on the milky skin of Oikawa’s leg and where his fingers disappear beneath the material. Slowly, Ushijima’s fingers pinch one of the straps and draw it out taut over Oikawa’s thigh.

“What is this?” asks Ushijima, twisting the elastic in his fingers, his gaze finally rising to meet Oikawa’s. He sees the thin, teasing smile on Oikawa’s lips. His insides flutter at the promise concealed inside it.

Oikawa stands up off the couch, wriggling out of his shirt and his shorts. In a few quick moments he’s standing before Ushijima wearing only the lacy lingerie, trying not to be nervous. Ushijima barely moves – the only part of him that moves are his eyes, and they scour appreciatively over Oikawa’s body, once, twice, three times, lingering over the panties and the suspenders. The setter’s body threatens to melt under those eyes, the way they seem to peel him completely naked, how they almost seem to _fuck_ him as he stands there, three feet away. He inhales deeply through his nose, quickly so Ushijima doesn’t see, and then snatches up the television remote.

He busies himself with the channels, humming, and he’s surprised at how easily he can forget that he’s almost completely naked, standing in his living room in a pair of lacy panties. With a few deft flicks of his fingers he switches onto a channel that’s airing a comedy he likes.

Tossing the remote onto the couch he goes over and sits squarely in Ushijima’s lap, leaning back against his broad chest and keeping a keen eye on his hands to make sure they don’t touch. He sees Ushijima’s fingers twitch, but his hands remain dutifully by his side.

“You know, I first saw this show back in middle school,” Oikawa remarks with a thoughtful hand at his throat, wriggling in Ushijima’s lap. He has to hide the smirk that rises to his lips when he hears Ushijima swallow audibly behind him. “My mom told me that it’s been airing since before I was born. I think that’s crazy, who the hell would keep a show going that long…?” Even his own ears tune out to his idle rambling, but it’s nice, in a way. The muscles in his shoulders aren’t tense anymore and his hands flit like birds through the air, punctuating his sentences.

It’s a game. It reminds him strangely of the games he used to play in his childhood in the schoolyard, or in the streets at dusk with the other neighbourhood kids. For a brief moment he’s indulging himself in a game as pure and as innocent as any other – he’s trying his best to be annoying, to make his opponent uncomfortable. He wants to win. But, slowly, he regains the consciousness of exactly what it is this game consists of as Ushijima begins to react underneath him.

Oikawa has to give him points for remaining utterly silent and unmoving; had he not been paying attention he probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, but the sheer lace of the panties is thin, and it’s the only thing separating him from Ushijima’s jeans. So he _can_ feel it. Ushijima is getting hard.

He anchors his hands on the ace’s knees, bowing his back and elevating his chest as he rolls not merely his hips but his entire body, swivelling about in Ushijima’s lap and letting the absurdity that is the lingerie scrape along Ushijima’s crotch. The spiker leans back against the couch and his hands twitch again, raising a little off the couch as though to take hold of Oikawa’s hips, but he clenches them tightly into fists before he can.

 _Maybe I should give him a lap dance one day,_ Oikawa thinks, and a second later he’s biting his tongue at himself, shocked that he would even _think_ that. But there’s definitely an allure to the image of him dressing in something unspeakable and draping himself all over Ushijima Wakatoshi like a piece of sheer chiffon. He grinds himself a little harder against Ushijima, then, dragging in a high breath that he makes sure the other man can hear. He can feel the blood rushing through his own veins, down to pool in his groin, and as he presses his pussy against the now distinct hardness in Ushijima’s pants, his body begins to react and those same irresistible sensations threaten to surface.

He knows that if they do, he won’t be able to fight back, and he’ll lose.

He can’t lose. He _won’t_ lose.

Grinding his teeth, Oikawa tears himself away. He ends up standing before Ushijima again on shaky legs, fists balled determinedly by his side. Ushijima almost looks relieved at the loss of contact.

“Stay here,” Oikawa snaps. “If you touch your dick I’ll cut it off.” Without waiting for a reply he storms off, irritated at himself for reacting as viciously as he had. He heads to his room, taking the stairs two at a time and diving for the shoebox he keeps securely beneath his bed. It’s a stroke of genius – things are about to get a whole lot harder for Ushijima. Pulling out the box, Oikawa holds up his favourite sex toy: a long, thick dildo made of translucent purple jelly. It’s laced with thick veins and has a bulbous head and the mere sight of it makes his groin flutter. He doesn’t bother to hide it when he heads back down to the living room; Ushijima’s eyes find it immediately and his brows pull down low over his eyes when he realises what it is.

“Remember,” Oikawa purrs, “no touching. And no looking away, either.”

He sinks to his knees only a foot or so in front of Ushijima. Usually, of course, he’d use lube for something like this, but considering the slickness that’s already dripping from between his legs he doesn’t think it’s entirely warranted. Keeping his gaze locked firmly on Ushijima’s, he drags his pink, wet tongue up the side of the toy before forcing it between his lips. He gags a little when it hits the back of his throat, eyes growing heavy and tears pricking at the corners, but his eyes remain steady all the same. When he pulls the toy from between his lips coated with drool, sticky strings of it drag from between the head and Oikawa’s lips. He smiles a smug, promising little smile before rocking back onto his hips and spreading his legs to give Ushijima the perfect view of his shivering, lace-clad cunt. He can practically feel the tension in the air as Ushijima’s eyes grow dark as a storm, fists clenching tightly on his thighs.

Oikawa reaches between his legs, sliding a finger between the cleft of the panties where they’d ridden up between the fleshy lips of his cunt; he drags it from bottom to top, flicking lightly over his clit, and when he pulls the finger away to suck on it a dribble of precum remains connected. The smirk won’t leave his face as he lifts his legs, extending his supple, milky thighs, a finger curling down to pull aside the soaked material and reveal Oikawa’s glistening, glowing pink folds. Ushijima bristles like an animal at the sight of it, his nostrils flaring only slightly; it’s as though he can _smell_ it, and his lips part, tongue darting out to touch his lower lip. His eyes are no longer on Oikawa’s face.

“It’s still not as big as you…” Oikawa teases as he takes the toy and slides it along the fleshy mound between his legs, grinding up over his clit hard enough to have him shuddering in a full-body shiver. Those gorgeous, red lips fall open into a wet ‘o’, with only a glint of sly teeth; he teases the toy up and down, coating it with his own juices.

His knees shake as he lifts himself onto his haunches, using the dildo’s suction cup to anchor it to the floor. Oikawa balances his body over it, the muscles in his thighs beautifully taut, and he sinks down onto it slowly, his hands ghosting up his chest. When he’s fully seated he lets out a blissful little sigh; it’s a comfortable fullness, though its pleasure is muted compared to what the real thing is able to give him.

Ushijima’s eyes are fiery, riveted on Oikawa’s lithe body as he fucks himself so slowly and enticingly on the toy. _No touching._ Ushijima isn’t the kind of person who breaks rules, especially if that means him forfeiting a challenge – but Oikawa is testing his patience. The black lace is delicious against his skin, perfectly complementing the rosy blush of Oikawa’s face and knees and cunt. Christ, he’s dripping all over the floor like a bitch in heat, his hips moving faster and faster on the toy as though he can’t get enough of it –

The spiker lets out a low, almost inaudible growl. The muscles in his jaw clench tight as he grinds his teeth, the heady smell of Oikawa’s arousal suffocating him, the sight of Oikawa melting like a flower in the sun unbearably arousing. Ushijima’s cock is straining in his jeans, begging to be released, to plunge into the tight, sopping heat of Oikawa’s cunt and to fuck him senseless. Fingernails bite into the rough skin of his palms as he clenches his fists tighter.

Oikawa knows he won’t move. He knows Ushijima has a pride of his own – naming this a challenge was a marvellous idea. Ushijima won’t back down, he _knows_ he won’t, and so Oikawa has the freedom to tease him however he chooses. It’s driving him half mad with lust.

“Mmngh,” Oikawa moans, his abs contracting as his body shivers in pleasure. “It’s hitting me so deep… do you like watching, Ushiwaka-chan? You’re such a pervert.” His smirk flutters but grows wider, his hips humping up and down on the toy faster and faster, the viscous, sticky juices beginning to pool at the base. Oikawa reaches up to tug at his own nipples, which grow flushed and swollen at his touch; Ushijima licks his lips, the image of how his lips would look fastened around one of them filling his mind. Oikawa is panting, now, his body glistening in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Let me fuck you.” Ushijima’s voice is slow and steady; he’s trying to make sure it doesn’t crack. He’s trying to keep control. Oikawa grins wickedly.

“No,” Oikawa snaps, letting his hips drop down until the toy is fully sheathed inside him. He lets out a high whine at the sensation of being filled, fixing Ushijima with hazy eyes. “Why would I need you when I have this?”

It’s that moment Ushijima snaps.

He flies forwards so quickly that Oikawa doesn’t even see him move; suddenly he’s pinned on his back to the floor, Ushijima’s hands tight around his wrists to the point of being painful. Oikawa’s cunt, the toy still wedged inside it, tightens at the sudden show of violence. The spiker’s eyes are dark, pupils once more drawn into tiny pinpricks, and his lip is curled up to reveal just the slightest sliver of teeth. His hips roll deep and slow between Oikawa’s spread legs, the rigid edge of his erection pressing hard against Oikawa’s sensitive, swollen flesh. If their clothes hadn’t been there, he would’ve sunk right in.

“You lose!” Oikawa breathes, though his voice hitches half in fear and half in anticipation. Ushijima, slowly coming back to his senses, realises his mistake and hauls himself back onto his haunches. Oikawa detects a hint of sorrow in the low set of his brow, but he’s really quite sorry that Ushijima didn’t just take the initiative and fuck him to within an inch of his life. “That means you get punished.” He grins as he levies himself up onto his elbows, jamming the heel of his foot against Ushijima’s groin. The ace stutters a little at that, but grits his teeth and bears it.

“I accept my punishment.” That low, rich voice is like molasses to Oikawa’s ears, a slick shiver walking down his spine. With a wet squelch the setter removes the toy from his pussy, the underwear once again slipping across to cover him up. Juices stick to his thighs, though, and as he stands and looks down at Ushijima he tries to think of a punishment. There are so many possibilities.

Looking down on the spiker’s face brings an idea to mind. “Take off your shirt,” Oikawa breathes. Ushijima silently obeys. “Now sit back a little bit.”

As Ushijima does as he’s told, Oikawa takes a few steps forwards until he’s able to thread his hands through Ushijima’s hair.

“Lower.” Ushijima, leaning now against the couch, lets himself slide lower until his chin is directly in line with Oikawa’s thighs. The setter’s hand tightens in his hair, yanking his head back so Ushijima’s face is turned upwards, his gaze skimming up that beautiful body to glittering hazel eyes. “Good boy, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Oikawa places one foot on either side of Ushijima’s hips, standing directly over his lap. Ushijima wonders what he’s going to do – by this point he’s confused at the stance they’re in, at Oikawa’s hand pulling at his hair. But as Oikawa places one knee on the couch, letting his body rock forwards as he pulls Ushijima’s head towards him, things become very clear.

“Better breathe in, Ushiwaka-chan!” Oikawa grins before pressing himself against Ushijima’s mouth.

Oikawa lets out a shuddering moan as Ushijima’s lips reflexively move against his pussy; he grinds his hips a little, desperate for more delicious friction, and Ushijima’s nose rubs over his clit, the roughness of the lace against the sensitive, swollen nub almost making him cum there and then. Ushijima, it seems, has gotten the message fairly quickly. His eyes flutter shut and his mouth opens, his tongue snaking out and lathing against the sodden material of Oikawa’s panties.

“No touching, not allowed,” Oikawa pants when he feels Ushijima’s fingers skim the backs of his calves. His free hand joins the first in Ushijima’s hair, and he looks down smugly as he fucks himself against Ushijima’s mouth.

It’s better than Oikawa could have imagined.

It’s thrilling to have Ushijima’s face smothered like this, to see that dark skin glistening with precum. Sure, Oikawa had imagined smothering Ushijima before, but that had been mainly with a pillow or something; he quickly discovers that he much, _much_ prefers smothering him with his own dripping cunt. There’s power in it.

And what’s more, Ushijima appears to be enjoying it. His cheeks turn pink with the need to breathe, but his tongue is flat and fleshy against Oikawa’s slit, lips sucking diligently at a pussy so aroused it feels like it’s almost swelled completely shut. The setter’s hips become a little more fervent as heat begins to spiral tightly in his groin, and it’s not long before he’s abandoned all his inhibitions and is riding Ushijima’s face like there’s no tomorrow, head thrown back and hands tearing at the other man’s hair.

“Yes, p-put your tongue there – _oh_ –,” Oikawa breaks off with a cry as Ushijima’s tongue finds its way beneath his panties, sliding deep within Oikawa’s folds and making the setter’s knees almost give out beneath him. He looks down with bleary eyes and sees that Ushijima’s eyes are still shut in bliss, his face fully flushed and his jaw working as the need to breathe gets greater and greater. Oikawa holds the spiker’s face tighter against his pussy, rocking his hips against Ushijima’s mouth and nose. “What a p-pervert, Ushiwaka-chan… letting m-me ride… your f _ace – shit_ –,”

Oikawa bites down hard on his wrist to stifle the hair-raising scream that would have surely torn out of his chest when he cums; Ushijima sucks at the sweet flesh and Oikawa cums hard, _squirts_ sweet clear liquid all over Ushijima’s face.

Ushijima’s tongue doesn’t stop, not when Oikawa is curling over his head and humping his hips furiously against his face, not when his hair is threatened to be torn out from the roots, not when his lungs scream and he goes a little purple around the eyes. He doesn’t stop until Oikawa weakly murmurs “enough” and pulls away, sticky strings of wetness dragging from Oikawa’s cunt to Ushijima’s face.

He looks like a hot mess; Ushijima gasps for breath, his whole mouth filled with heady sweetness. He swallows down Oikawa’s juices and only then does he let his eyes open. Oikawa stands dazed and enamoured before him, riveted on Ushijima’s dripping face and flushed lips and red cheeks and rumpled hair. There’s even precum dripping from his chin to track wet trails over his chest. Oh, he looks like a disaster.

“You’re a mess.” Oikawa fists his hand in Ushijima’s hair again and bends down to kiss him. He can taste his own cum on Ushijima’s tongue.

When Oikawa pulls back he lets Ushijima breathe, picking his phone up from the coffee table and snapping a picture of the ace sitting slumped and dishevelled, chest heaving as he struggles to get his breath back. Oh, he’ll use _that_ one later.

“What a good boy, Ushiwaka-chan. You didn’t even touch me, not once. I was suffocating you and you still didn’t touch me.” The setter smirks down at him, hip propped out, knees still shaking a little. Ushijima’s eyes rise slowly to his face. The hunger is still there – if anything, it’s greater than ever.

“Now it is my turn.”

“What –,” Oikawa doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Ushijima is suddenly gripping him tight and forcing him to the floor, one broad hand anchored against Oikawa’s back so he can barely raise his cheek from the carpet. “Ushiwaka –,”

Ushijima is silent as he tears Oikawa’s panties away, the material tearing completely in two. Oikawa hadn’t seen Ushijima reach his limit – the ace had concealed it so perfectly. Oikawa’s body shudders and reacts immediately to the violence and tries to push itself back onto Ushijima’s cock when the blunt head presses against the engorged mound.

But it’s not him.

It’s the toy – Ushijima pushes the toy into Oikawa’s cunt, splitting it apart and making sure it stays there. The setter tries to twist his head around, to look at what Ushijima is doing, to _say_ something –

“Wha _aahgh_ ,” Oikawa’s back arches as Ushijima’s fingers press against his ass, fingering at the wet, pink little pucker just above his stretched cunt, already dripping with the juices from his pussy. The hole yields deliciously beneath his fingers, tiny and tight and eager. Ushijima eyes it hungrily, his cock throbbing with need as he looses it from his jeans. When Oikawa finally catches on, he lets out a frightened yell and tries to bat away Ushijima’s hands as they move over the curve of his ass. “No, _no,_ it won’t fit, it won’t – hn _ngh!_ ”

Ushijima doesn’t care if it won’t fit. He’ll _make_ it fit. He’ll do it regardless of how much Oikawa struggles and screams and swats; he’s no longer a human. He’s an animal, and he’ll take what he wants. But there is only so much fun in pain, and he decides he’d much rather Oikawa beg for it like a bitch in heat. So he pushes in a slick finger, right up to the knuckle, then another one, pulling them both apart so he can see the glistening wet insides.

“Beautiful,” he rumbles, a distinct heat rising in his neck. His entire body is on fire with the need to fully claim each one of Oikawa Tōru’s holes. He takes his time fingering Oikawa open, marvelling at how wet and soft and slick he is, even in his ass. “You were made to be fucked. Your entire body was made to be bred.”

Oikawa gurgles incomprehensibly against the back of his hand, eyes rolling and tongue going slack as Ushijima adds yet another finger. He arches his back as far as he can, pushing out his ass and begging to be filled up with more than just fingers, even though he’d been screaming in opposition not a few minutes before. “F-fuck me…”

“Hm?” Ushijima asks, cocking his head a little to the sides and shoving his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, watching in delight as Oikawa’s asshole stretches around his cock, cunt quivering around the toy. “What do you want?”

“Fuck m-me, please…”

Ushijima smirks a little. “With what, Tōru?”

Oikawa almost keens at the sound of his given name; his hips stutter, humping desperately at the air. “W-with your cock… I want you to fuck me with your fat dick… mess me up…”

“Tell me where you want it.” The spiker hooks both thumbs into Oikawa’s hole and stretches it open, and it blooms before him like a flower, practically begging for him to abuse it until it bleeds.

Oikawa’s face is aflame with humiliation. “I-in my ass,” he mumbles.

“Speak louder.” Crisp, authoritarian.

“In my ass –,” Oikawa gasps out, saliva dripping down his chin. He’s slowly beginning to lose himself. “Fuck my ass with your cock, please, fuck up my insides with it, I want to feel you in my guts, _please –,”_

It would have been impossible for anyone to have resisted that. Ushijima’s self-control is exemplary, and his limits had been pushed all night; this was the last straw. Seeing Oikawa sprawled out with his ass in the air, a dildo wedged in his cunt and his ass all spread open… nobody could have resisted it. Not even Ushijima Wakatoshi.

With a feral snarl, Ushijima directs his cock to Oikawa’s asshole and pushes in, the tight ring of muscle yielding under his force. Oikawa cries out at the pain of something so big splitting him open, but it sinks in in one long, deep thrust.

Oikawa presses a hand over his own mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. He feels so _full_ with Ushijima’s cock in his ass and a toy – a little smaller, though not much – deep in his cunt. He’s never felt like this before and it frightens him a little, as though he could pass out at any second. Thankfully, Ushijima holds still inside him for a little bit.

“I’m moving.” It’s not a request – Ushijima is going to move whether Oikawa likes it or not. Gripping Oikawa’s ass in both hands he draws out his cock, greasy and dripping in a mix of their juices, until only the head is spreading Oikawa’s deliciously raw hole open. Then he slams in, hard, sending the most gorgeous shriek rolling from the setter’s tongue. Oikawa’s body shakes with dry, heaving sobs, his insides fluttering and clenching impossibly tight. His ass is smoother and slicker than his cunt, tighter, and unbearably hot.

“I’m gonna die,” Oikawa drawls listlessly. His mind is fading. As soon as Ushijima’s cock had slid into him his brain had switched off, leaving him pervious to only the most carnal of sensations. His body is shaking, burning, each organ churning and each bone rattling like trees in the wind. His fingers grapple weakly at the floor.

He’s lost. He’s been utterly, completely defeated. He might be able to go on with his life after this, but he knows it will never be the same. Each time he thinks of this moment in the future, his body will react, and his knees will go so weak with pleasure he’ll almost collapse.

Ushijima rears over him, powerful hips starting up an unforgiving pace. With each brute thrust Oikawa grows limper, melting like warm honey beneath his hands. In his frenzy, Ushijima vaguely remembers a peach tree in his childhood; his father would always give him a peach when the tree was full and heavy with fruit, and Ushijima would take it and squeeze it in his fist, mesmerised by the smooth skin and the sweet aroma. He’d squeeze it until the skin split and the juices came oozing out from within, until the once perfect fruit lay messy and pulpy in his palms. Now he has Oikawa in the palm of his hand, perfect and sweet, and his fist is squeezing, squeezing until Oikawa is dripping and destroyed and as succulent as that ripe, heady fruit had once been.

“ _Ushijima_ ,” Oikawa whines, thrusting his hips back against the bruising thrusts. “Fuck me, please, _fuck me more_ –,”

“You were made for me to fuck you,” Ushijima growls. He grips Oikawa’s hips and bends himself over the other man’s pliant form, once again using his weight to drive the full force of his thrusts deep into Oikawa’s body, licking a rough, wet stripe from mid-spine to the nape of his neck. At the shift of angle Oikawa lets out a weak scream, his shoulders shuddering. “You were made for me to _breed_ you.” _You were made for me._ “Tell me!”

“I was made for you!” Oikawa cries, his voice broken and beaten and completely subservient. “My whole body is made for your cock, _god,_ nothing else can e-ever satisfy me… now… _unghh –,”_

 _I’m doomed,_ a little voice in the back of Oikawa’s head laments. _It’s true. I’ll never be able to go back now. My body craves him._

Ushijima’s palm cracks over the pert curve of Oikawa’s as, nails raking over the burning skin after. “You’re mine.” His mouth hangs open as he gasps for air, drawing deep, ragged pants as he fucks hard and fast into Oikawa, sweat coursing over his skin. He’s coming unhinged, driven mad with lust and the need for possession. “You’re mine!” It rises like thunder, shaking the photos in their frames and the windows in their panes; it shakes Oikawa’s bones, deep in his body, and his eyes roll back into his head as he completely loses it.

 _I’m done,_ that little voice laughs. _I’m gone. I’m all his._

Ushijima’s muscles draw tight as he feels Oikawa cum below him; he half expects the setter to begin foaming at the mouth, but all that spills from between his lips is thick, viscous drool. His face is contorted in pleasure, hair glowing and dishevelled, his body shining and slick with sweat and cum as it thrashes beneath the ace, hips humping wildly back on his cock, spraying that same sweet liquid as before, drenching them both to the point they’re dripping all over the ground. A sound leaves Oikawa – some sort of sound – but it’s foreign to Ushijima’s ears, almost animal in nature, something inexplicably deep and primal. It’s a noise that sets his entire body alight, a deep roar echoing in the confines of his bones.

Ushijima’s grip is crushing as he tears himself from the tight sucking grip of Oikawa’s ass, a shaking hand tearing the toy from the setter’s cunt to allow him to plunge his cock into the hilt.

“N _o_ ,” Oikawa moans. “Not there, if you f-fuck… me there… _hgngh…_ I’ll die, I’ll _die_ , Ushijima _no –,”_ But Ushijima does; he fucks in hard and fast, indulging in the obscene squelching of Oikawa’s cunt as he abuses it so roughly, hitting violently against the setter’s cervix time and time again. Throwing his head back with an almighty groan, Ushijima holds himself deep inside Oikawa and releases himself, his heavy balls drawing up tight as he releases load after load, flooding the setter’s cunt to the point it’s leaking out the sides and dripping in thick white globs onto the floor. Each tendon in his neck is taut, each vein pulsing against the skin. Oikawa cums again at the sensation, jerking weakly beneath Ushijima, half sobbing into the floor pressed against his face.

When Ushijima finally returns from his high he collapses on top of Oikawa, sliding off his sweat-drenched body and onto the floor beside him. His cock slips wetly from Oikawa’s cunt, letting the cum dribble out and pool on the floor. The setter is still shaking beside him.

“Bastard,” Oikawa manages, fixing Ushijima with weak, bleary eyes. “I didn’t… I didn’t even… _ask_ you this time.”

They’re both still breathing hard. Ushijima doesn’t reply for some time, not until they’ve both stopped panting, not until Oikawa has stopped shaking. He pulls the setter against his body, nuzzling at his neck and his hair. Oikawa doesn’t pull away; he’s far too weak to move, but he doesn’t really mind being cradled like this. Not that he’d ever admit that.

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima apologises eventually, stroking the damp hair away from Oikawa’s face. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Surprisingly, Oikawa chuckles, leaning into Ushijima’s touch. “Boy, don’t I know how that one goes.” Then the smile leaves his lips and he averts his gaze. “I’ve fucked up, y’know.”

Ushijima waits patiently for him to continue, the question silent on his lips. _Why?_

“I don’t think I can go back, now. You… I mean, whatever you’ve given me, I… I don’t think I can move on from that.” Oikawa grits his teeth as a wholly unwelcome thought rises to the surface. Admitting his own defeat is one thing, and he realises rather quickly that while he might have acknowledged it, Ushijima is not his. _I can’t turn back,_ that voice tells him solemnly. _I can’t move on, but_ he _can. And who knows? He just might move on and forget all about you._

Oikawa’s gut clenches tight and cold.

_Please don’t move on._

_Don’t leave me behind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you hear that..... the promising rumble of angst in the distance.....................
> 
> i wrote ushi's mom completely off the bat (as in i hadn't even thought about her before writing lmao i just spat out whatever came to mind) and i'm in love with her.......... also just as a disclaimer, please don’t ever do ass-to-vagina or… yknow… ass-to-anything unless u clean that dick first (ik they did in this fic but it’s fiction ok don’t listen). sex safety 101, kids. don't get herpes.


	5. Damnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dudes i am happy to announce i now have wifi so i can update this fic
> 
> prayer hands all around
> 
> im plastered aas fuck right now god bless i'm so sorry

Oikawa is not there when Ushijima wakes up, and, very briefly, he panics. He’s usually an early riser, preferring to go on his morning run before the sun rises, even in summer. But the sun is glaring through the windows of the living room and he sits up, a blanket falling in his lap. His memories slowly begin to connect, and once he recalls exactly what had happened the night before, he finds himself with a touch of a headache.

He’s on the couch of Oikawa’s living room, and if the second blanket is anything to go by, he hadn’t been alone. Ushijima rubs his eyes and stretches a little; his muscles ache like they do after a particularly nasty match.

“You know, you never seemed like the ‘sleeping in’ kind of guy to me.” Oikawa appears in the doorway of the living room dressed in a pair of loose pyjamas and holding a half-empty bottle of milk. He still looks rumpled, his face pleasantly pink, and on his face is a half-smile that’s more vaguely irritated than anything. “My ass hurts like a bitch.” _Ah,_ Ushijima thinks. _Right._

“I… don’t usually sleep this late.” The spiker rubs a hand over the back of his neck, getting to his feet and padding across the living room. “I’m sorry that your… backside… is sore. I don’t know what I can do about it.”

Oikawa shoves the milk bottle into his hands. “You can make breakfast, that’s what. I’m sick of instant ramen. Oh –,” Oikawa pauses, eyes dropping. “You might want to put on some pants first.”

Ushijima flushes when he realises he’s completely naked.

Ten minutes later has Ushijima in a pair of loose (donated) flannel pants, in Oikawa’s kitchen, pan in hand, making breakfast for the both of them. Oikawa sits at the small kitchen table and the room is filled with sunlight, the various pots of flowers on the windowsill turning their faces to the morning sun.

“When I was twelve I set the kitchen on fire,” Oikawa yawned, leaning his head against his hand. “Since then my mom banned me from the stove. Like a restraining order, I guess – I’m not allowed within a foot of it.”

Ushijima doesn’t look up. “Come here.”

“Hm? Ushiwaka-chan, are you going deaf? Restraining order, remember?”

The spiker looks over his shoulder at Oikawa. “Come here.”

With a sigh Oikawa gets to his feet, padding over to stand beside Ushijima, who holds out the pan to him.

“Whoa, no. No. If my mom comes home to find that I’ve set something else on fire she’ll skin me alive and use me as a bedsheet.”

Ushijima says nothing, but his eyes convey all Oikawa needs to know. His chest flutters, his heart nosing nervously against his ribs. Tentatively, he reaches out and takes the pan. Ushijima’s hand is warm at the small of his back.

“All you have to do is stir it.”

Oikawa’s knuckles are white and nervous around the handle of the pan, but he takes the spatula Ushijima offers him all the same, following the motions of one of the ace’s fingers as he indicates how Oikawa should stir the onions to avoid getting spat at by the butter sizzling on the bottom.

Even Iwaizumi won’t let Oikawa near a stove, let alone when it’s _on_ … and yet Ushijima had just handed him a pan without even questioning it. Oikawa’s brow twitches a little. _Shit. He trusts me._

Nothing burns down. Nothing even catches on fire; Oikawa is careful and when Ushijima checks over his shoulder the onions are finished, and Oikawa sets them down on the extinguished stove with a little huff of victory.

“There we go,” he says, reaching into the pan to pick out a little piece of onion –

Oikawa hisses in pain when he burns himself, shaking his hand wildly in the air until Ushijima catches his wrist and drags him over to the sink to put the finger under running water.

“Don’t reach into pans like that,” Ushijima mumbles as they wait, Oikawa pouting at his side. The sun is warm across their backs; Oikawa’s kitchen is small and a little cramped, but it’s full of light and smells and colours. The two of them are stood very close together, and when Oikawa raises his face his nose almost touches Ushijima’s jaw. Ushijima looks down at him, faces so close Oikawa almost goes cross-eyed.

“Don’t,” Oikawa whispers when Ushijima leans in, a sudden bitterness biting at the back of his tongue. Ushijims pauses, eyes searching the setters face; a second later he pulls back, shutting off the water.

“You’ll be fine. Just be careful, all right?”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue.

Ushijima is, indeed, a good cook. Oikawa is a little annoyed but he can’t really bring himself to be mad about it, not when he’s being fed such delicious food. It’s strange how easily words come to him; talking to Ushijima is like talking to a brick wall, but even when it seems like the spiker isn’t paying attention, Oikawa somehow always knows he is. Even their silences are comfortable. It pisses Oikawa off.

The two of them sit in the kitchen for a few hours after that, not really talking but both unwilling to leave. The sunlight shifts across the room, the flowers following suit, and every time Ushijima looks at Oikawa he’s reminded of the peaches from his childhood, perfect and sweet and safe in his hands. The way Oikawa laughs is like biting into ripe fruit, and he laughs only once during the time they sit there; Oikawa has never laughed genuinely in front of Ushijima before. The spiker is mesmerised at its harmony and deigns to try and make Oikawa laugh more in the future, even though he doesn’t know how.

It’s almost noon when Oikawa lures his eyes away from Ushijima to the clock hanging over the fridge; he starts, lurching out of his chair and hastily making to clean up the dishes.

“My parents are coming home soon,” he explains a little breathlessly, darting back out into the living room to right the couch cushions and gather Ushijima’s clothes, shoving them into the spiker’s arms. “They can’t see you here.”

“Why not?” Ushijima asks as he watches Oikawa skid around with a rag and a mop, setting about cleaning up the mess from the night before. “You have met my mother, so why shouldn’t I meet yours?”

“Because you just _can’t_.” The tone of Oikawa’s voice is high and strained. He stops working for a moment, settling for just looking at Ushijima, expression pained. He sets down the mop and goes to him, hesitantly placing those long hands on his chest. “Listen,” he tries again, this time more subdued. “It’s not my mom that’s the problem, it’s…”

“Your father?”

Oikawa nods. “He’ll know something happened. They both know you, I’ve talked about you, how much I –,” the word _hate_ stalls on his tongue for a moment, impossibly bitter, like the cold bite of blood. “How much I hated you. He’ll know.” Then he laughs humourlessly. “First he finds out that his son is a freak, right? And now he’ll come home and find out that he’s been fucking around with another guy? I don’t want to have to go down that road.” Oikawa, still smiling a cruel little smile, makes to resume his cleaning. Ushijima catches his wrist tightly, though, pulling him back in again.

“You aren’t a freak.”

“Hm, Ushiwaka-chan, what a pleasant soul you have.” Oikawa tilts his head to the side a little, Ushijima’s warm gold eyes settling his heart a little bit. “But you don’t get it. Change and leave as quick as you can.”

Ushijima holds him for a moment more before acceding and going to change back into his own clothes again. When he comes back out he helps Oikawa clear up, the living room spotless, before loading the dishwasher. Soon they’re stood at Oikawa’s front door, facing each other, not speaking a word. Oikawa’s arms are folded across his chest and his eyes are darting about nervously. He’s so restless that Ushijima has to take the setter’s face into his hands, stroking his thumbs over Oikawa’s cheeks in a gesture that’s by now grown rather familiar.

“I don’t want you to go,” Oikawa sighs; after he realises the words had slipped out he blushes brilliantly, and Ushijima chuckles a little, leaning down until their foreheads touch gently. _Don’t kiss me, don’t kiss me, don’t kiss me –_

But he does. Ushijima kisses him very softly and very gently, holding Oikawa’s face in his hands, and when he pulls away his eyes are just as soft as his kiss had been. Oikawa sighs hopelessly, consumed with a very sudden moment of self-loathing. _I won’t last long like this._

His body has yielded. That much he knows; his mind, however, doesn’t seem quite as weak. But for it to succumb as well… it isn’t impossible. And when Ushijima touches him tenderly or kisses him softly, that awful reality becomes much more real.

Oikawa watches Ushijima go. He doesn’t walk him to the station, nor down the road. He only shuts the door and goes back into the empty, silent house, back to the kitchen where Ushijima’s presence still lingers. Sitting down in a chair at the table, Oikawa lets his head sink down onto his arms, and with the hazy warmth of the sun on his neck, he allows himself to drift off to sleep.

 

“Tōru, we’re home!”

Oikawa is roused from his sleep by his mother’s voice ringing through the house. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Oikawa gets to his feet and goes out to greet his parents. When his mother sees him her eyes brighten and she flings herself forwards to hug him tightly, kissing his temple. “We missed you so much! Sorry we had to stay away for so long. Were you all right?”

Oikawa flushes a little bit as he recalls what had happened while they’d been away. “Yea, of course,” he lies easily, smiling. “No problem at all.”

“Oh, good.” She takes off her coat and flings it over one of the chairs in the hall, stretching tiredly. “I’ll go make some tea!”

Oikawa’s mother totters off to the kitchen, leaving Oikawa and his father standing alone in the hall. The silence is unnerving, especially for Oikawa, who can barely meet his father’s gaze. But he does, perhaps a little brazenly, his eyes meeting the flat, unimpressed gaze of his father.

“Welcome home,” he offers feebly. His father nods, handing Oikawa his briefcase – it’s made of black leather, scuffed only slightly around the edges – before heading upstairs to his bedroom. Oikawa sighs heavily. “Nice to see you too.”

He takes his father’s briefcase and sets it down on the same chair upon which his mother had tossed her coat; the sounds from upstairs and from the kitchen are foreign to him. He’s used to the house being silent.

“Work is always hectic at this time of year,” his mother says as he enters the kitchen, flapping her hands about as she takes the kettle off the stove. Oikawa sits at the table again, in the same place as before, and imagines that it’s Ushijima standing stoically at the stove. Ushijima wouldn’t ramble on like this – he wouldn’t apologise where it wasn’t needed. But then again, he’s not Oikawa’s mother.

A cup of tea is set down before him and he takes it, waiting until his mother is settled at the table as well before taking a sip.

“So, how have you been? I hope you held up all right.” Her eyes are concerned and he’s pretty sure she can smell the lingering odour of instant ramen, even though he’d taken such" care to clear away the evidence.

“I was fine,” Oikawa assures her, stomach tightening. _I was more than fine._

“Oh, that’s good.”

Silence falls between them and she looks down at her hands, twisting her cup nervously in her hands; her eyelids flutter as she recalls exactly what had happened before they’d left, on the day Oikawa had departed for his training camp. Guilt swells in her throat.

“Are you okay –,”

“I’m okay.” Oikawa’s voice is taut but firm, and she looks up at him with enough sorrow in her eyes to account for the man who refused to apologise.

“I can’t say anything, but he’ll come around.”

Oikawa reaches across the table and lays his hand over hers, and he manages a smile. “It’s okay, mom. I promise it is.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, Wakatoshi, you’re home!” Ushijima’s mother calls when she hears her son enter through the back door. She walks out into the narrow hall between the dining room and the kitchen, barefoot and dressed in slacks and a loose office shirt. “You had to leave in such a rush last night, I was a little worried. Was Oikawa-kun all right?”

Ushijima nods as he steps out of his shoes, leaving them neatly in the vestibule by the door, sliding the screen shut behind him as he enters. “Yes. He was merely in need of company.”

His mother’s face softens a little; it’s odd to see such an expression on such a hard-featured face. She beckons him into the small second living area, in which there’s a low wooden table made of dark mahogany. The shoji screens leading onto the veranda have been thrown open and one of Ushijima’s two dogs is sniffling around outside, nudging his nose around the clusters of bamboo. He follows his mother as she goes to sit down at the table, folding her long, strong legs beneath her as she settles down on one of the floor cushions; the table has been set with a light morning tea of mostly traditional snacks and a pot of steaming tea. Ushijima’s mother sets down another cup as he sits down, glad for the cool breeze whispering through the surrounding forest.

“You have something bothering you.” She looks at him knowingly as she pours him some tea, sliding the cup across to him. “And don’t deny me. I know you do. Your father had exactly the same face when he had something he wanted to talk about, you know.”

Ushijima chews on the inside of his lip. He takes the cup and begins turning it in his big hands, staring down at his wobbling reflection. Barley tea – simple, but his mother’s favourite.

“You are right,” he admits quietly as his mother begins to pick at the spread. “But it’s difficult.”

“Always is. But I’m your mother, and it’s just me and the dogs here now. How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t have to be scared to talk about things, Wakatoshi?” She lays down her chopsticks and reaches across the table, taking her son’s hands into her own. Ushijima has never been a big talker – she’s the same as he is, really, and had been even worse in high school. She knows he doesn’t do it because he dislikes sharing things – it just doesn’t occur to him. But some things… they can eat away at a person. Those are the things that need to be talked about.

“It is about Oikawa.”

“Oh? I did find that a little strange, considering how much he seemed to dislike you before.”

Ushijima can’t meet her eyes. “We had sex. Multiple times. But I fear that something else is there, something I’m not… familiar with.”

Ushijima’s mother bites her lip against a smile and holds his hands tight. “Wakatoshi, are you in love with him?”

His mouth is dry. The words balance on the tip of his tongue; the answer is so simple, so clear, and yet he can’t say it. He can’t say it because saying it would make it _real_. It would make concrete the thing Ushijima fears the most.

“He used to hate me. He _loathed_ me with every fibre of his being. I never saw such unbridled hatred in anyone’s eyes when they looked at me, even though I didn’t entirely understand it at the time. I…” he swallows, then, unable to finish for a while. His mother waits, as patient as ever, watching him with eyes as calm as the ocean. “I do not make mistakes. But this… I don’t want to cross any lines I ought not to cross. I can’t afford to make a mistake. I’ve only just gotten Oikawa and to lose him would…”

“You’re scared,” his mother finishes for him. She almost laughs; here sits her son, a great, handsome, hulking athlete with a future on the national volleyball team, and he’s worrying about someone not liking him back. As far as she knows, Ushijima has never been in love with anyone before. This is something she’d expected to deal with in middle school, not… now.

And certainly not with someone like Oikawa Tōru.

“What do you have to lose, hm?”

Ushijima glances up at her, and she detects a rare flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “I can’t tell him.”

It’s not _I don’t want to tell him._ It’s _I_ can’t _tell him._ Ushijima’s mother lays her son’s hands down on the table, going back to picking at the food.

“You’ll be ready one day, my love. And remember –,” she looks him dead in the eye. “I’ll be here when you are.”

 

* * *

 

Days pass. Classes resume and Oikawa and Ushijima see less of each other than they’d prefer. But there’s nothing they can do about it, so they have to grit and bear it, settling for quick, stuffy liaisons whenever they can, squeezing in sloppy quickies when their parents aren’t home, or in the locker rooms when nobody’s looking. It’s difficult but fun, both of them feeding on the danger of being caught. They catch the same train sometimes, rocking together and moaning, Ushijima going so far as to ease their trousers down far enough to let him slide his cock between Oikawa’s soft, supple thighs, thrusting until he splurges cum all over the insides of Oikawa’s briefs, leaving him a sticky reminder throughout the school day. That’s the most they can have.

Oikawa becomes increasingly careful to hide his binder whenever he isn’t wearing it; he doesn’t want this one to be ruined like the last one was, even more so because it was a gift given with such pure intent. It stays hidden, buried right down at the bottom of his sock drawer, folded neatly and inconspicuously. His father never finds it, and if his mother sees it while cleaning, she never says anything. She still feels guilty for standing frozen against the kitchen wall as her husband had flown into a rage; she hadn’t mentioned it since then, but whenever she looks at Oikawa he sees her shoulders slump a little bit.

“One day he’ll come around,” she promised him just as she always did. Oikawa isn’t sure if he believes her.

The only other person who knows about the incident between Oikawa and his father is Iwaizumi. He’d come over to drop off some sugar for Oikawa’s mother just after Oikawa’s father had stormed out of the house, almost knocking the cup from Iwaizumi’s hand; he’d stood stunned in the doorway, watching the Oikawas’ car tear out of the drive and speed off with a squeal of the breaks and the scent of burning rubber.

He’d found Oikawa’s mother sitting in the kitchen with her head in her hands. She wasn’t crying, just staring down at the tabletop with wide, vacant eyes. Oikawa was nowhere. Iwaizumi had set down the cup of sugar and left, a little disturbed, as though he’d suddenly ended up somewhere he shouldn’t have been. He knew Oikawa would tell him in his own time, and he did; the next day he came to school with his arms folded over his chest and an unsettling expression on his face, his smile forced and grotesque.

 _He tore it right in two, right in front of my eyes,_ Oikawa had thought to himself, his entire countenance strangely flat. He didn’t tell Iwaizumi about that part. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell so much; he almost hit me, you know. But he didn’t, thank god. I don’t know how I could’ve played off a black eye.” When Oikawa laughed Iwaizumi had seized him by his shoulders and rattled him until his teeth chattered, horrified that he was _laughing_ moments after telling Iwaizumi how his father had been roaring and flinging insults at Oikawa as though he was pelleting stones at a criminal.

“Am I a pervert, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asked as tears rolled down the gentle curves of his cheeks. “He told me I was a pervert, but I’m not, am I?”

“No, fuck,” Iwaizumi had gritted out, holding the setter’s face in his hands and hugging him tightly. “You’re not.”

Oikawa believes he should have told Ushijima, too, and he almost had when the spiker had given him the gift wrapped in magazine paper. For some reason, though, he hadn’t, and he suspected it had something to do with the obsessive belief that Ushijima was still his enemy. It wasn’t something easy to forget – it still isn’t, at least not for Oikawa, who had let himself become so consumed with hate that amounted over so many years… but he can’t help but think there’s something right in what he’s doing. Maybe it’s wrong to tell him. Their relationship is one of the flesh as far as Oikawa is concerned, of indefatigable lust and the primal need for connectedness. What’s the point in trying to weave in past histories? All they’ll get is tangled and confused and the very last thing Oikawa wants is for this all to come crashing down in flames. The carnage, he knows, would leave him broken.

Secrets had always been safer than the truth.

 

As time wears on they see each other less and less. Oikawa needs to focus on his exams and volleyball; the more he plays the more ridiculous this whole situation with Ushijima seems. Once he returns to the rhythm of normal practice it’s like he’s home again, surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells of his teammates, the familiar sight of their backs and the colours of their fluttering jerseys, the thump of their sweaty palms on Oikawa’s back. And it all seems ridiculous, that he’d ever be split open and reduced to such a slutty pile of jelly by his sworn rival’s dick.

But he had been.

Oikawa swears he’s getting withdrawal symptoms; he spends hours at night with his hand thrust between his legs, but nothing can quite imitate the glorious length and painful girth of Ushijima, nor the intense press of his hands and his hot fingers. Nothing can satisfy him enough, though the picture he’d save on his phone – the one with Ushijima spent and slumped against the couch with Oikawa’s juices drenching the lower half of his face – certainly helps. He craves for it in the same way a drowning man craves the air; the sweet touch of it at the tip of his tongue, the painful squeeze of it as it forces its way down his throat, filling his body until he can’t feel anything at all.

He doesn’t get the chance to corner Ushijima and take what he wants, though. Their schedules conflict and grow even tighter as exams loom high above them, their afternoons and mornings consumed by sports and studying.

A few weeks after that long night spent together in Oikawa’s living room, the setter wakes up with a swimming head that sends the ceiling tilting before his eyes. He only just manages to stagger to the bathroom before he vomits violently into the toilet bowl, his stomach constricting and lurching horribly, twisting up near his lungs and squeezing out everything it can. Oikawa’s eyes stream with tears, his throat and nose burning as he sits back on his haunches, a clammy hand pressed over his mouth. Behind his forehead his brain is throbbing, knocking against his skull in a hollow pulse, and Oikawa leans his head against the cool tiles of the bathroom walls as his gut finally begins to settle.

He briefly considers staying home from school; in the end he decides it’s too close to exams to risk missing class, not if he wants to be properly prepared for graduation. When you’re gunning for one of the top universities in the country like Oikawa is, even one day can impact on performance. So Oikawa diligently wipes his hands and his face, flushing the toilet and going to shower and change before heading to school. He meets Iwaizumi outside his front gate, as usual, gleaning a bite or two of the sandwich Iwaizumi buys at the bakery on the way to the station.

“You look like shit,” Iwaizumi observes, his dark brows pulled low over his eyes. “Like a fish’s belly, as my mom would say.”

Oikawa laughs; hearing Iwaizumi imitating his mother’s voice has never ceased to amuse him. “Just a stomach thing. Probably something I ate.”

“I always tell you to monitor your milk bread consumption in exam season,” Iwaizumi tells him in that _I told you so_ kind of way, and Oikawa pouts, figuring that he’s probably right.

When they arrive at school Oikawa quickly forgets about his nausea. He’s reunited with his friends and they take up their seats, rocking dangerously on their chairs and throwing balls of paper at each other, capturing as many quick moments of fun as they can before they knuckle down and study. Oikawa’s mind is fast and sharp; it always has been. He’s clever, even he knows it, both on and off the court. But his lessons begin to haze around midmorning, blending into one another in what soon becomes a misty cocktail of misunderstood words and kanji that dance across the page in ways printed text never should.

“Teacher,” Matsukawa calls from somewhere behind Oikawa, raising a lanky arm into the air. “Oikawa looks sick, can I take him to the infirmary?” His voice is long and low and easy, but Oikawa can’t bring himself to raise his head.

The teacher glances from Matsukawa to Oikawa, her book still in her half-raised hand, and as soon as her eyes settle on him they widen and she nods.

“Come on,” Matsukawa urges him as he helps Oikawa to his feet, the setter’s head lolling against his shoulder. He slings Oikawa’s arm about his neck, holding him firmly around the waist and helping him walk out of the classroom. Matsukawa’s hand rests on his lower back, damp and cold with sweat. “You look like you’re about to keel over and die.”

Oikawa just shakes his head, mumbling something even he doesn’t understand. Nausea rolls through him, as unbridled and threatening as the capped waves of the open ocean. He moves one shaking hand to press against his lips again, just in case his stomach tries to force up those few bites of Iwaizumi’s sandwich he’d had on their way to school; thankfully he manages to make it to the infirmary without any incident.

Aobajōsai’s nurse is an old, wrinkled little man with gold wire-rimmed glasses and skin so soft it looks like silk. Nobody knows how he can see out of his eyes, since his face is so crinkled up that his eyes are practically invisible. His head barely comes up to Oikawa’s collarbones, but in those gnarled hands he holds immense strength able to set dislocated limbs. He sits Oikawa down on one of the cots, the few wisps of white hair on his brow pulling inwards as he inspects his face and takes his temperature. Adjusting his glasses, the nurse tucks the thermometer in his pocket. “No fever…” he murmurs mostly to himself. “I think it’s best you take the rest of the day off, young man.”

Oikawa grimaces; he doesn’t want to go home but he knows that Iwaizumi will kick his ass into next week if he doesn’t, so he quietly accedes. Matsukawa waits slouched by the door, hooded eyes as sharp and observant as ever, and it’s only when Oikawa is dismissed that he moves to help Oikawa to his feet. He doesn’t help the setter walk on their way back to the classroom, this time, though his long hand hovers at Oikawa’s elbow all the same, just to make sure. Once he collects his bag and puts on his shoes, Oikawa bows in apology to his teacher before taking his leave.

“You take care of yourself, Oikawa-kun!” she calls as he leaves, and he waves to her, smiling a little in gratitude.

The walk home is lonely. Thankfully the train is almost empty at this time of day, so Oikawa can sit up near the back with his head against the cool glass. His cheeks are warm, but he has no fever, which to him seems rather strange. He’d always gotten raging fevers whenever he came down with a virus, ever since he was an infant; they always looked worse than they actually are, which Oikawa’s mother had learned very early on when she’d taken him to the hospital as a baby and when the doctors had told her they were amazed he wasn’t dead.

He’s grateful when he can drop himself into bed. His parents are working, and while the house can sometimes be lonely without them he appreciates the silence, the only noise being the faint hum of traffic and the gentle rustle of the leaves from the tree outside his bedroom window.

Oikawa falls asleep at some point in the late afternoon when the sunlight is warm and mild against his back. He sleeps all through the night, still dressed in his uniform, not stirring even when his mother returns home and steals into his room to kiss his hair.

 

When he wakes he doesn’t feel any better.

In fact, it’s another mad dash to the bathroom, Oikawa skidding over the hall-runner as he sprints to throw up his guts into the toilet again.

“Tōru!” his mother exclaims, witnessing her son’s race across the hall to the bathroom and hearing him vomiting violently. She runs to the doorway and is met with the sight of Oikawa’s back heaving as he throws up; she goes and crouches down beside him, holding his hair out of his face and rubbing his back as he chokes and sniffles, swallowing the searing, bitter bile. “Tōru, you’re sick.”

“I’m okay,” he insists despite his voice being thick and entirely unbelievable. His mother’s face reflects as much.

“You’re staying home today – no arguing.” She holds up a hand to him when he makes to reply, and he sits back against the toilet bowl with his face downturned in defeat. “I’ll call into school and tell them you’ll be off.” The sound of the car horn blares from the drive, her husband waiting to drive them both to the station. They’re due for a number of important business meetings in Tokyo, and she chews uncertainly on her thumbnail as she remembers that they’ll be away for a number of days. “Dad and I have to go away for a bit… will you be okay on your own, dear? You won’t do anything untoward, will you? And you’ll call if you need anything?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa croaks. “I’ll call. I’ll be fine, mom, promise.”

His mother stoops down to kiss his forehead quickly before bundling her case under her arm. “I love you, baby! See you in a few days!” Then there’s the loud clacking of her shoes on the floorboards, the slam of a door and the crunch of tyres on gravel, and then silence.

Oikawa rubs his eyes, hitting the flush again and going to wash his face and take a long drink of water. He feels a little better after having thrown up, but his insides still feel like they’re moving, twisting and turning around as though there are little hands rearranging them. Grumbling, he pads back to his room, straightening the hall-runner with his foot as he goes. _Great,_ he thinks. _A virus, jut what I need._ He goes to the calendar hanging over his desk, events and dates pencilled in tiny text; narrowing his eyes he traces his finger along the row, checking for any particular events he might miss. His finger comes to a grinding halt when it passes a small, thin red circle.

His stomach drops like a stone.

Each single drop of blood in his veins turns cold and stops running entirely; he watches as his finger begins to shake, joining the others as they come to clasp over his mouth in dead, horrific revelation.

Oikawa’s period is almost an entire week late.

He hadn’t even noticed. He’d been so busy with school and volleyball that he hadn’t even had a chance for it to cross his mind – he just counted on it being regular, because it had been something that occurred on the same day every four weeks, regular right down to the hour. Never, not once in his life, had his body strayed from the norm, not even when he’d gone on birth control that one time.

Never.

So why…? Why was it late? He didn’t understand. It had never been late. There’s no reasonable explanation – the only way he could have missed it would be –

 _Oh._ Oikawa feels nausea rising in his throat again, but this time for an entirely different reason. Suddenly the mornings of vomiting and lack of fever made sense, clicking into place like a puzzle piece. Oikawa can barely feel his body; it turns cold as ice, then entirely numb, and he has to grip the back of his desk chair to keep himself upright.

There are times in all of our lives when we are so taken by fear that our bodies refuse to work. We refuse to breathe, refuse to move; something inside us shuts down completely, hustling our consciousness away somewhere safe, somewhere out of harm’s way. For Oikawa, this is one of those moments. His face, colourless, is frozen, as though someone had taken out a cork from the bottom of his chin and drained him of blood the way one drains a bath. The little red circle swims before his eyes and a sudden pain flares at the back of his sinuses. It’s panic, panic he’s only just managing to bite back.

He can’t breathe. His hand clutches at his throat, but it’s shut tight as anything, his lungs cinched completely closed. Pain blooms in his chest, his hand slipping and losing its purchase on the back of the chair; he stumbles and lands on the floor as though a rug had been yanked from underneath him. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, he’s completely numb with fear and with horror. He’d never seen the consequences; he’d known of them, yes, but he’d never expected it to _happen_. Not while he’s still in high school with a promising career ahead of him, anyway.

“No,” he croaks, his voice leaving him in a high watery cry; it’s the sound of mourning, of sorrow so deep its bottom can’t be seen. His eyes sting and blur with tears and he tries his best to scrub them away with the back of his hand, but it doesn’t work, and they spill over and over until he feels like he’ll drown in them.

Oikawa crawls to his bed on his hands and his knees, the sheets fisted in shaking fists as he struggles to get a hold of himself. His abdomen is burning, those little hands twisting and tearing at his guts as though with the intent to tear him apart. _Breathe,_ he tells himself, gasping and gulping like a winded child. _Breathe._

He doesn’t tell himself it will be okay. He knows it won’t. How could it be? His shaking legs only just manage to support his weight, and with his vision still hopelessly distorted he stumbles from his room down the stairs, his hands stuck fast to the wall so he doesn’t fall. He collapses to his knees in the living room, before the television cabinet, bowed and broken like a beggar praying before an altar in a shrine. Blinking rapidly to try and stem the tears, Oikawa tears open the phonebook and searches desperately for a number he’s already remembered.

The dial tone is the worst noise in the world. The receiver is damp by now, and Oikawa wipes his nose with his sleeve, swallowing thickly and trying not to show how difficult it is to breathe.

“Hello, Ushijima residence.” Oikawa makes a nervous little noise at the earthy sound of Ushijima’s voice.

“Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa says, tone wobbling dangerously. He can almost feel Ushijima bristling with concern at the other end of the line. “Ushiwaka-chan, it’s awful –,”

“What’s wrong?” Oh, yes, there’s that tight note of concern – Oikawa almost smiles at the sound of it, but he’s so utterly distraught that he really can’t move at all.

Pressing a hand over his mouth Oikawa tries to conceal a heaving sob. “Ushiwaka-chan,” he begins in little more than a hoarse whisper. “I think I might be pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MGGG YY GOOODDD I FORGOT THIS WAS _THAT_ CHAPTER IM YELLING AAAAAAAAA BOYS U GONE DONE FUCKE D UP


	6. Determination

“I can’t be on my own,” Oikawa breathes into the phone.

“I’m coming to you.”

“You’re in school –,”

“I don’t care. I’m coming to you right now. Please hold on.” And with that, without so much as a word of encouragement, the line goes dead, and Oikawa is left with nothing but the dead beat of the dial tone.

On one hand he’s terrified. He’s pregnant at seventeen with his enemy’s child. He might as well flush all his aspirations down the drain – he can’t just put his life on hold for nine months. But on the other hand, part of him feels giddy; he’s been claimed, utterly and completely, by Ushijima Wakatoshi. His body is no longer his own, but Ushijima’s, and the thought makes him feel a little strange. He’s hesitant to call it arousal.

_I’m coming to you._

Oikawa shuffles himself back into a corner of the living room and pulls his knees up to his chest. He still feels sick to the bottom of his stomach, nausea rolling around inside him, and he presses his forehead to his knees as he tries not to cry.

 _I’m over,_ he thinks, and bites down hard on his lip to muffle a sob. _It’s all over._ Things suddenly are no longer a game; everything between him and Ushijima is very much real, and very serious.

He isn’t sure how long he stayed there, sat huddled in that corner, but the next time he raises his head it’s in reaction to a loud rapping on the door; the door isn’t locked, and from his position he can see it directly as the knob is jiggled and then the door is thrown open.

Ushijima stands in the doorway, his breaths coming hard as though he’d been sprinting. His fist is clenched tight around the strap of his bag, knuckles white, and he drops it to the floor as soon as he sees Oikawa huddled in the corner.

A pathetic whine rises from Oikawa’s lips as the ace drops to his knees before him and he raises his arms like a child when Ushijima pulls him into his arms. Ushijima holds him so tightly, his arms strong and warm and for the first time since checking the calendar, Oikawa feels a little safer, a little better.

“We did it,” he sobs, nose running against Ushijima’s collar. “We fucked up…”

“It’s all right,” Ushijima soothes him, rubbing circles against his back. “We’ll be all right.”

_We._

Who is he talking about? Him and Oikawa?

Their child?

“I’ll take care of you.”

Oikawa presses his face into Ushijima’s shoulder. His hands are fisted in the back of his blazer, fingers trembling. They sit there for a while, until Oikawa stops shaking and until his heart stops jumping around like a carnival ride inside his ribs. Gently, Ushijima takes Oikawa’s face into his hands, kissing at the tears on his cheeks. He’s pale, a little green about the eyes, Oikawa notices – he’s scared, too. He’s trying hard to hide it, but Oikawa can tell all the same.

When Oikawa was a child he’d been scared of thunderstorms. He’d cried, too scared to leave his bed, until his mother showed up. She’d hold him and rock him to and fro until he stopped crying, until he sat snivelling in her arms, clinging onto her until the fear began to subside.

He hadn’t felt anything like that since then.

But somehow Ushijima has the same affect on him; he absorbs Oikawa’s blinding fear, all his horror and his terror, and holds him until Oikawa is able to breathe again. His rough, warm hand strokes up and down the back of Oikawa’s neck.

Silently, Ushijima’s hands shift downwards, curling behind Oikawa’s knees and gently lifting him up, cradling the setter against Ushijima’s warm chest. Oikawa lets out a little hiccup of surprise when he does, his diaphragm jumping; he sighs, then, leaning against the warm firmness under Ushijima’s uniform as he’s carried to his room. Oikawa isn’t entirely sure how Ushijima was able to find his room so quickly, but he attributes it to some inborn sense that the ace appears to have been born with, some sort of animalistic nature to care for the injured. Not that Oikawa is hurt, but…

Well. The suspicion that Oikawa is carrying his kid might have something to do with it.

Ushijima settles Oikawa down onto his bed, lifting the sheets and covers out of the way before laying them comfortably back over Oikawa’s legs. When he’s sure Oikawa is settled, he gets to his knees beside him, leaning in on his elbows to tentatively wipe at the setter’s wet cheeks. They stay like that for a moment, just staring at each other, before Ushijima stands and begins to remove his blazer.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa asks from the bed, his voice raw from his panic. Ushijima, his hair still rumpled a little in distress, looks up at him.

“I am taking care of you.” Those hawklike eyes rake over him again. “You are obviously in no state to take care of yourself.”

Of course he isn’t – Oikawa sits with a snotty nose and red, puffy eyes, his hair tousled and, if he’s to be honest with himself, he feels very, _very_ unattractive. But he doesn’t think about that, because with Ushijima he doesn’t think about his looks. It’s as though he _can’t_ – just like that first time in the locker room, or in the dorm when he’d been so strangely unconcerned about how he _looked_.

He feels disgusting.

When Oikawa thinks of babies he thinks of fingers; fingers scratching at his insides, crawling their way out of him. Tiny little fingernails. He shivers and turns his face to the wall, pressing his fingers to his lips.

“Oikawa.” Ushijima’s firm, even voice calls back Oikawa’s attention, and he raises his eyes reluctantly to find Ushijima standing beside the bed with the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to the elbows, a broad hand hovering just above the setter’s taut shoulder. His voice softens. “I will take care of you.”

As though the words had been a touch, Oikawa relaxes a little. For a moment he forgets the little hands twisting in his guts, overwhelmed by the low, even beat of Ushijima’s voice, like a heartbeat.

Ushijima, first of all, makes him soup. He’s certainly not stupid enough to have _not_ realised that Oikawa had been throwing up. Oikawa manages to doze off for a little while, lulled by the knowledge that Ushijima is somewhere in the house with him, and when he wakes he’s greeted by subtle, warm smells drifting up from the kitchen. He can almost taste it just lying there, but he gathers his blankets around him and drags himself downstairs and into the kitchen, plonking himself right down at the table.

“You should rest,” Ushijima says without turning. “You need to recover from your distress.”

Oikawa pushes his pout into his blankets. “I am rested. I’m still resting. God, sue me for wanting some _company_.”

Ushijima doesn’t reply.

But he doesn’t send him away, either.

This, Oikawa realises slowly, is his favourite place to be. The kitchen has very quickly become his favourite room in his house because for some reason this is where all his favourite moments happen; those warm moments, the sunny ones, the ones filled with savoury aromas and warm, dark skin –

“Here,” Ushijima interrupts his thoughts as he sets down a small bowl of what appears to be some kind of broth. Oikawa peers down at it, wrinkling his nose a little bit. It does smell pretty good, though. “Start off with a little bit and try to keep it down.”

Oikawa, for once, doesn’t retort. He doesn’t have the energy. Instead he just takes the spoon Ushijima offers and hesitantly tastes the soup – despite its rather bland appearance, it tastes _incredible_ , and Oikawa suddenly discovers a ravenous appetite. When he demands more, Ushijima shakes his head with a small smile peeking through his teeth. “Try and keep it down,” he says again. “See if you can stomach it.”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue.

They sit there without talking for a long while. Slowly, as the broth settles in his stomach, Oikawa finds himself feeling uncharacteristically tired. He can’t stop thinking about why Ushijima is even here, which kind of detracts from the pleasure of having him around… because of a baby.

A baby neither of them wants (that’s what he tells himself. He does want it – just not now). A baby neither of them can afford.

Again, Oikawa thinks of fingers and tiny fingernails. He shivers, this time rather violently, pulling the blankets close around him.

“Are you feeling sick again?” Ushijima asks, alarmed, already half-risen in his seat.

“No,” Oikawa replies, then falls silent again, staring at the hard grain of the kitchen table and the faint blue gleam of the porcelain bowl. “Take me back to bed.”

Ushijima does as he’s told. He lifts Oikawa into his arms again, even though he knows the setter is more than able to walk himself, and takes him back to his room. After putting Oikawa to bed, just as he’d done before, Ushijima makes to leave again. This time Oikawa catches his wrist and tugs on it. “Don’t go. Come here for a second.” With a single, long hand he beckons to Ushijima to come closer.

As Ushijima sits down, Oikawa sits up a little straighter so he can wriggle into the ace’s lap, yanking him down into a half-lying position.

“What are you doing?” asks Ushijima, a little bewildered, as Oikawa lies his head on his chest. Oikawa hushes him, harshly, closing his eyes as the room falls into silence.

For a few moments there’s no sound but that of their breathing. They both lie still, Ushijima more in shock than anything, Oikawa’s body tense and relaxed all at the same time.

And then he hears it.

 _Thump, thump._ Like the far-away call of thunder. _Thump, thump._

Ushijima’s heart.

Oikawa had never believed there to be a heart lodged in Ushijima Wakatoshi’s chest. He’d always been as two-dimensional as a comic book villain, shallow. But Oikawa has begun to understand the true depth of the person that is Ushijima Wakatoshi. The heartbeat is slow and steady beneath him, as regular as a metronome, as calming as the sea. Oikawa just listens to it, just as one would lie in bed and listen to the pull and flow of the tide.

“I’m listening.” It’s only a mumble, but Ushijima hears it.

Oikawa only vaguely registers a warm hand rising to card through his hair, gentle fingers playing over his scalp like the delicate keys of a piano. Ushijima’s hand, the hand of one of the country’s most powerful spikers, the hand of a quiet pianist.

And so they lie there, Oikawa’s existence riveted on the sound beneath his ear, Ushijima’s existence riveted on the soft hair between his fingers. Something like a give and take, in silence, their breaths rising and falling as one.

Slowly, Oikawa drifts off to sleep.

 

When he wakes it’s late afternoon and Ushijima is still dozing beside him. He has one burly arm thrown up over his head, his face turned slightly into his shoulder, his fringe ruffled over his brow. He looks a little funny, sleeping like that, and Oikawa shifts from being curled into his side so he can see him better.

He might have woken him. He might have teased him by poking his cheek or sticking a wet finger into his ear; but he doesn’t. Ushijima looks so peaceful, so at ease, his face smooth and unconcerned. Oikawa wonders what he’s dreaming about. If he’s dreaming about anything at all.

Ushijima’s eyes peel open as though he knows Oikawa is looking at him. The hand above his head comes down, then, fingers trailing over Oikawa’s face. Is it adoration? The devotion Ushijima had been so unable to express until now? His golden eyes are too dark for Oikawa to be able to really tell.

“I’m hungry,” Oikawa mumbles sleepily. “Go make me something to eat.”

This is what Oikawa has been dreaming of. Seeing Ushijima rise from the bed, sleepy and with the golden light of the afternoon slanting across his face; he’s dreamt of how Ushijima would look blinking the doziness from his eyes, stretching his muscles, scraping sleep-tousled hair back from his face. Now, when Oikawa lies on sheets still warm and fragrant from Ushijima’s body, he’s seeing it for real. It’s even better than what he imagined.

“I want you to come with me,” Ushijima says, a little uncomfortably, perhaps, after he’s finished making Oikawa more soup. Oikawa, his mouth full and spoon half-raised, pauses and stares at him.

“Come where?” asks the setter, his voice gurgling as he tries to speak through his food.

“To my house. I don’t… I don’t want you to stay on your own.”

Usually, Oikawa would have been annoyed. But Ushijima had said the words so softly, with such genuine intent, that he really can’t be.

“Will you kidnap me if I don’t agree?”

Ushijima tilts his head, then nods.

Oikawa almost bursts out laughing from the solemnity of it all.

“’Kay,” he replies eventually, shrugging. “I’ll go.”

Ushijima helps him pack an overnight bag; before they leave, Oikawa showers and changes. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and immediately understands why Ushijima doesn’t want to leave him alone – he looks as awful as he feels, his face the very picture of nausea, pale and a little green beneath the eyes. He looks thinner, somehow. Maybe it’s just the light.

They sit close together on the train; by this time it’s late evening, the tail-end of the peak hour traffic, so they sit up the back with the lengths of their arms touching, Oikawa’s long fingers playing lightly along the back of Ushijima’s hand as he cradles his bag in his lap. They don’t really speak; Oikawa gazes out at the black whirl of the scenery as it passes by, sliced every now and again by a streak of harsh yellow light.

When they arrive at Ushijima’s house, Oikawa sees no shoes in the vestibule. “Is nobody home?” he asks, and Ushijima shakes his head, taking off his own shoes and lining them up neatly. Oikawa kicks off his own shoes, too, and somehow they don’t line up quite as neatly. Even though he’s been here before he sticks close to Ushijima’s back, following him up a shallow flight of steps to the second storey where he knows Ushijima’s bedroom is. His heart leaps into his throat.

The room is just as he remembers it. In fact nothing has changed at all – there’s not a single thing out of place, except –

“You got a new plant?” Oikawa asks out loud. He hadn’t meant to ask it out loud. When he realises that he _did_ , he flushes a little, embarrassed. Ushijima half-turns to look at him and blinks, just as surprised as Oikawa is embarrassed. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t make a big deal of it, even though the question hangs in the silence all the same.

_You noticed?_

“Yes,” Ushijima replies, and that is that; he takes Oikawa’s bag from him, placing it on the bare wooden chair by the window, before going to turn down the bed. When it’s done, Oikawa gratefully crawls into it, his abdomen cramping uncomfortably in response. He flops down on his back. Back when he’d lay in his bed with Ushijima, he’d been able to smell him. But this is something else entirely – Ushijima’s scent is all around him, wrapping about his body like a hug, sinking into his clothes and his hair. It _feels_ like Ushijima. “Will you be alright here?”

Oikawa can hardly speak. There is a very distinct tightness in his diaphragm that stops him from being able to breathe, a heaviness in his chest as though someone had laid a stone atop it. He looks at Ushijima, he _stares_ at him unabashedly, taking in the sight of him standing there at the foot of the bed. Oikawa sighs and lets his eyes fall shut again. “Yeah.”

A moment later the front door slams and hard heels tap along the stone floor of the entranceway. “Wakatoshi! Are you home?” Ushijima’s gaze snaps towards the door, Oikawa jerking into a sitting position in panic. Silence follows and Oikawa can practically see the woman downstairs standing at the vestibule gazing down at his shoes. “Oh, do you have a friend over?” There’s more sound from downstairs, of clattering shoes and jingling bangles and singing, and Oikawa’s breathing begins to quicken.

“Ushiwaka,” he gasps urgently and suddenly Ushijima is there, hands on his face and smoothing down his hair.

“It’s all right,” Ushijima sooths him. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

“She can’t find out about me –,” _She’ll think I’m a freak, she won’t let you see me again!_ Panic begins to blacken his vision and he grips at Ushijima’s shirt with clammy palms.

“She knows. It’s okay. She knows. She knows.” Ushijima repeats it over and over until Oikawa’s breathing begins to even out again, until his hands stop shaking. Tears well up in his eyes and he presses his face into Ushijima’s shoulder, pulling him close. “She knows. It’s okay.” Ushijima continues to stroke the back of Oikawa’s neck.

They hear humming coming from down the hall, the distinct shuffle of slippered feet over the floor; Oikawa looks up blearily to see the door of Ushijima’s room – which already stands ajar – open a little bit. Ushijima’s mother, upon seeing Oikawa’s face, opens the door in surprise and stands there, one hand still poised on the handle.

“Oikawa-kun,” she says. “Are you all right?”

Oikawa hides his face in Ushijima’s shoulder.

“I’ll talk to her,” Ushijima promises him. “It’ll be all right. I’ll talk to her.” Oikawa doesn’t want to let him go, doesn’t want to let him go away, but when Ushijima eases him back down against the pillows he doesn’t resist. Ushijima kisses his temple, stroking the hair tenderly back from his face, before drawing the covers up over the setter’s shivering body and standing up again.

His mother stands with her hands on her hips in the doorway, watching curiously as her son so affectionately caters for the other boy. It’s only when they’re alone in the hallway, Ushijima standing silent, that she speaks.

“You _will_ talk to me, Wakatoshi,” she says, twisting the gold band of her watch around her wrist. “What’s going on? Why is Oikawa-kun here… in a state like that?” She nods at the closed door. Ushijima reaches out, gently taking her elbow, steering her back downstairs towards the kitchen.

“I will make you some tea,” he tells her quietly. She narrows her eyes at him, more confused than anything, but nods, parting from him and going to settle down in the living room.

The silence beats in close around Ushijima’s ears as he makes the tea. He feels panicky for some reason, unlike anything he’s ever really felt before… at least for a rather long time. He curls his shaking fingers into a fist and squeezes them. He should have known – he should have expected something like this to happen, what with his and Oikawa’s unbridled fucking. They’d been practically mating like rabbits, unable to keep their hands off each other, neither of them giving any serious thought to the consequences. And now they’re dealing with it.

Of course he can’t just leave Oikawa to his own devices. Leaving has never occurred to Ushijima, and he doesn’t care whether or not people are aware of what he did because of it. He doesn’t care what allegations are laid across his shoulders; leaving is not an options. Running away from this and hiding is never a thought he’s entertained. Besides… the thought of cradling some miraculous combination of the two of them in his arms isn’t that horrible, either. A child. Their child.

Blinking the thought away, he carries the tea into the living area, finding his mother sitting at a low table and scrolling through something on her phone. She’s still dressed in her crisp work suit, hair still wrapped tightly into a chignon. On her nose is a pair of simple reading glasses, not so much unlike Ushijima’s own, and when she looks up and sees her son approaching her, she takes them off and tucks them into the pocket of her blazer.

Ushijima doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know how to explain all this to her. He sits there, fists balled on his knees, staring down at the tabletop.

“Wakatoshi,” his mother says, holding out on of her hands. Ushijima watches the long fingers glitter with three simple rings. “Give me your hand for a moment.”

Reluctantly, Ushijima lays his palm in hers.

“Now,” she begins with a little sigh, spreading his fingers and kneading the tight, stressed muscles of his palm. “Goodness me, you really are just like me when I was your age. It’s only now that I have to half beat you to death to get _any_ information out of you that I realise how much of a bother I must have been!” She giggles to herself, obviously remembering her own youth. Ushijima wonders if she’s ever been in a situation like this before. “Tell me what’s wrong with Oikawa.”

“He is pregnant.”

Ushijima’s mother stops. Her gaze peels away from their hands and fix on Ushijima’s face, sharp eyes foreboding. “Wakatoshi,” she breathes, lips barely moving. “Did you get that poor boy pregnant?”

He looks down at the tabletop again.

“Yes.”

She drops his hand and drums her fingers on the table. “ _Wakatoshi,_ what on earth were you thinking?”

“It was an accident.” He still can’t bring himself to look up at her. An accident… was it really, though? How could they call it an accident when they’d made the conscious decision to act so dangerously? He’d cum so liberally inside Oikawa’s wet, tight body knowing full and well that he could end up irreversibly pregnant. Ushijima chews on his tongue.

“And that’s why Oikawa is in such a state, then?”

He nods.

She sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. Silence passes between them for a while before she takes up his hand again. “Goodness me.” Then she laughs to her self as though she’s remembering something, and presses her fingers to her lips. “Wakatoshi, you go and tell that poor boy that he’s welcome here for as long as he likes.”

“You have every right to be angry with me. I am sorry.”

His mother leans across the table and smacks him. “I’m not angry with you, silly boy! Frustrated, perhaps, but not _angry_.” She gets to her feet, stretching a little bit, and then looks down at Ushijima with her hands on her hips. “Don’t waste your time with me – go and take care of Oikawa, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” Ushijima mumbles; he’s glad, though. Something’s settled deep in his heart.

“Don’t think you can get off school for this, either,” she calls after him when he leaves to go back to his bedroom. “Oikawa’s the one who’s incapacitated, not you!”

Ushijima stops in the doorway, pausing for a moment before turning and taking a few long strides back to his mother, gathering her up into his arms and holding her tight. She laughs in his ear, a warm and familiar sound, and rubs her hands up his back.

“Thank you,” he says as she kisses him tenderly on both his cheeks.

“You take care of him,” she replies as she rests their foreheads together, gazing at her son’s even, handsome face. Oh, she loves him, more even than she loves herself – but she knows the consequences of having children when you don’t absolutely want them. Between them, Ushijima takes her hands in his own. “I’m going to be here for you, my love, but this is your mess. You have created it, and you have to deal with the consequences.”

“I will.”

 

When he returns back to his room he finds Oikawa fast asleep, nestled deep down in the blankets. Ushijima silently goes to draw close the curtains, darkening the room, and then checks on Oikawa before heading across the hall again to the bathroom.

He showers quickly, brushing his teeth and changing into a loose shirt and trousers. He goes back to his room again, then, walking slowly around the bed. It’s not a large one, but it’s not impossibly small, either; he eases himself in beside Oikawa, gently pulling the setter into his arms. Oikawa, sighing, reflexively snuggles up against him.

“Mmh,” Oikawa mumbles, slowly coming to. His brow is puckered in a little frown, as though he isn’t quite sure where he is or what he’s doing. He’s so delightfully sleepy, so willing to cuddle up to Ushijima like this – the ace’s heart pulls up tight in his chest and he lays a number of delicate kisses over the crown of Oikawa’s head. It’s like that they fall asleep. Surrounded by each other, and as far as Ushijima is concerned, this is how it was always meant to be.

 

Ushijima Wakatoshi has always, ever since his early childhood, been an early riser. On any typical morning he usually wakes up at five-thirty to go for a run – six o’clock if he decides to sleep in a little, but he usually doesn’t. He runs five miles, right out into the rice paddies, and upon reaching the half-way point of his run he finds himself at a small bamboo kiosk, behind the counter of which sits a crooked little old lady. He likes running in the morning, even when it’s raining and the air is thick with the mist of precipitation. For the first mile or so he runs on the tarmac, the commuters used to the sight of his broad back on the road by now, but soon those wide tarmac roads run to dirt, lined by lichened stones and small roadside shrines that tingle with little bells in the wind. By the second mile the road becomes narrow, bracketed by thick vegetation that hides an old stone staircase to an abandoned shrine. If Ushijima stops and peers through the leaves he can see the peeling red paint and the little, glinting amber eyes of the stone foxes that guard the shrine gate. He doesn’t usually stop.

It’s after that the road widens out, though it becomes more difficult to run on due to the deep ruts driven into the dirt by centuries of rice carts passing to and from the fields. He likens it to a sunrise, really; when he bursts from the small band of forest and out into the paddies, the flat basin of land stretches out before him, appearing as suddenly and as dazzlingly as the sun at dawn. He likes them when they’re damp, just after the rain, dew still clinging to the brad brims of the old straw hats worn by the farmers who work there. He likes when they don’t wear shoes, when they have mud up to their knees. It looks like such messy work, but when they plant the fields their fingers move deftly and delicately like the dipping of swallows; Ushijima once considered asking if he could try, but he never really acted on it.

When he’d first started running that particular track, the farmers had been surprised to see him, even a little suspicious. They’re rural folk, Ushijima reasoned, and so to see an unfamiliar young man dressed in clean-cut clothes and expensive shoes breaching their community was certainly wont to be at least a little odd. But as the weeks turned to months and he retraced those same steps every morning, suspicious gazes turned to hesitant waves, and then to loud greetings that wafted over the glittering surface of the water. Ushijima loves exercising, certainly, but he loves running for other reasons, too.

The halfway point of his run is perhaps his favourite part of it. He never really liked breaking the momentum of his runs, and he’d never planned to, but when the road ran past a crumbling stone gate and to a kiosk, roof tiles matted with thick moss, he couldn’t leave. It had been like stumbling across a scene in one of the storybooks he’d read as a child, all mottled sunlight and dewy bamboo and fiery red maple leaves.

“Oh, hello there.” It had been a creaky old voice that had attracted his attention. From the kiosk there peered two slivers of eyes, so enfolded in wrinkled skin they were almost invisible; a little old woman, perhaps the smallest woman Ushijima had ever seen, was beckoning to him with a thin, gnarled hand. He went to her, and as he got closer he saw narrow wooden boxes laden with vegetables and fruit, soil still clinging to their crevices.

“Yes, yes, I know about you.” The woman smiled at him, and she reminded Ushijima very strongly of those sly fox statues at the forest shrine with their amber eyes that appeared far too alive. “You’re one of the Ushijimas, yes? Of course, of course you are, you’re golden, look at you.” She took up a leafy ear of corn in her tiny hands and held it out to him. Hesitantly, he took it, as well as the paper bag she gave him to put it in. “First time an Ushijima has come here, yes, first time. Please take this home to your mother, dear boy, yes, take it home to her.”

“How much do I owe you?” Ushijima asked her, but she shook her head, letting out a low, owlish whistle.

“No, no, boy, you don’t owe me, no. You take that back to your mother. You don’t owe me.”

So he did. He ran from the kiosk back to his house and gave the ear of corn to his mother, who unwrapped the bag and gazed down at it, turning it over in her hands. He told her of the kiosk, of the old woman, and then he’d cooked it into the dinner that he and his mother ate together that evening.

The next morning he went back, and again the foxes watched him. Again he ended up at the kiosk and saw the old lady smiling wryly at him from the deep shade of the mossy tiles. Again she gave him an ear of corn, but this time she also gave him a small wooden box of strawberries nestled on a bed of bamboo leaves.

“I must pay you,” Ushijima had said to her. She batted at his hand when he held out a palmful of glittering coins, the wooden beads around her wrists going _clack, clack_ as she did.

“You can pay me, yes, you can, but not with those. No, no, boy, not with those! Amber, boy, amber.”

A month later Ushijima learned that she was a priestess from the forest shrine – the one he’d thought to be abandoned. Those gnarled fingers of hers were used for chipping away at blocks of lime, carving in the wry faces of foxes. For a priestess she was strange, but beneath the incarnadine scarf wrapped about her head her scalp was bare, and upon her body hung simple robes of orange. One day she showed him the shrine, with its burning incense and tinkling bells. It had been so otherworldly that Ushijima could hardly feel his body.

And so when people ask Ushijima how on earth he can motivate himself to run five miles each morning, he merely shrugs.

He’d really never thought anything could dissuade him from going on his run – except for Sundays, which he has designated as his ‘rest day’ after his mother had told him that he needs to rest his body at least _once_ during the week. And he hasn’t found anything that he enjoys quite as much as his run to the rice paddies.

Until now.

Ushijima stirs sleepily, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun across his skin. He groggily reaches up to rub at his eyes, unsure why his bed feels so much warmer and so much deeper than usual. Usually he has no trouble waking up and _getting_ up, but this time something is different. And then, when something shifts beneath his arm, he remembers. Oikawa is lying at his side, his head turned into the pillow, breathing softly. Ushijima shifts a little to get a better look at him, and he remembers how distraught and wretched Oikawa had looked the day before, and he’s filled with gladness to see that the setter’s face is smoothed and unconcerned in sleep. Raising his hand, he traces his fingers gently down the side of Oikawa’s face, tracing over the curve of his cheek and the dip of his chin. Oikawa sighs at the touch, leaning into it a little bit.

He can’t bring himself to leave, not like this, not when Oikawa is lying snuggled up against him, that beautiful hair tousled and his face creased with sleep. Ushijima could quite honestly look at him forever like this, and so he lies there for at least an hour, just taking in each turn and angle of Oikawa’s face and neck and shoulder. Having him in his bed is so strange; smelling Oikawa’s scent mingling with Ushijima’s own sheets is still hard to believe, and yet it’s undeniably _real_ , and Ushijima has to remind himself of that constantly.

“Good morning,” he mumbles when Oikawa begins to wake, his brow pulling into a bewildered little frown before his eyes begin to open. Oikawa sighs, tossing his head and bringing up a long hand to rub at his face.

“Mmngh,” he groans, and then flips onto his stomach, stretching out before letting himself sink back into the pillows. “What time ‘s it?” Oikawa’s voice is still slurred a little bit, his eyes falling shut again. Ushijima glances at the clock on his desk.

“A little after seven.”

Oikawa grimaces, then glares at Ushijima, pinching his face painfully in order to yank him down so they’re buried in their nest of blankets and pillows. Together it feels like they’re in a world of their own, faces pulled close, eyes staring unabashedly at one another. And then Oikawa kisses him, tentatively, on the lips. His eyes remain open the whole time, as though he isn’t sure about it, and when Ushijima draws away those hazel eyes search his face for… something. The air is warm and close around them, the quiet whisper of the forest outside and the rustling of the sheets the only sound in the room.

“Wakatoshi!” Their little sphere of serenity is shattered as Ushijima’s mother calls up the stairs. “Are you awake? You’ll be late for school!”

Oikawa pales.

“You’re leaving?” he demands in a hiss, his fists clenching in Ushijima’s shirt and dragging him closer.

“It’s only for a few hours,” Ushijima rumbles, pushing the hair back from Oikawa’s face and kissing him urgently, that familiar drunkenness rising inside him again. He’d happily spend the whole day here with Oikawa, holding him and fucking him… or whatever else they might choose to do. Oikawa doesn’t look entirely comfortable with it, but he purses his lips and says nothing.

Ushijima doesn’t want to leave.

Oikawa’s eyes flicker back to his face, and they lie there a moment longer, the setter’s fingers playing over Ushijima’s jaw. “I’m sorry,” he croaks – as though this is somehow all his fault. Ushijima takes his face firmly in his hands, forcing those hazel eyes to his. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

He reluctantly leaves Oikawa sitting in the bed, hair tousled. Oikawa watches as he changes into his uniform, taking a curious interest in seeing Ushijima doing something so domestic, so _normal_ , buttoning the starched shirt of his uniform up over the broad, firm plane of his chest, tying his tie with deft fingers, shrugging on his blazer. Just before he leaves, Ushijima kisses him again.

“Unbelievable,” Oikawa mutters to himself after Ushijima leaves. He can hear the faint murmur of voices from downstairs and he feels vaguely ill. Christ – Ushijima had just kissed him like a husband kisses his wife before leaving for work. It’s sickeningly domestic. He flings himself back down again with a little _hmph._

Thankfully, though, Oikawa doesn’t get the overwhelming urge to vomit up his guts when he wakes up, and he can walk without wanting to fall flat on his face. But he stays in bed a little while longer, absorbing the warmth and the sun and the lingering scent of Ushijima’s presence. He finds that he likes wallowing in it.

“Oikawa-kun? Can I come in?” There’s a soft knock at the door, and Oikawa starts a little bit, sitting up and gathering the sheets about him.

“Yes,” he replies, and Ushijima’s mother peeks in around the door before letting herself in. She’s dressed in a fluffy robe, her hair in a topknot on her head and a pair of rather garish leopard-print slippers on her feet.

“I know it must be scary for you,” she says, sitting down at the foot of Ushijima’s bed. She puts her chin in her hand, sighing in what Oikawa realises to be sympathy. “Especially being alone here with me… but I think, like Wakatoshi does, that it’s better you be here than alone. Do your parents leave you alone a lot?”

“Um… yes. They work in Tokyo pretty often, so I’m on my own a lot of the time…” Oikawa feels a tug in his chest, like something’s telling him to open up, that this brazen woman is someone he can talk to. He doesn’t know why he feels like this.

“Well, what can be done? I’ll be working from home today, so I’ll take good care of you, I promise.” She laughs, loud and bright, and Oikawa can’t help but smile a little bit. “Now,” she continues, reaching out to tap at the underside of his chin. “I’m going to go and make some breakfast, so come down if you’re hungry. I’m not as good a cook as Wakatoshi is, I’m afraid, but I make a mean omelette.”

He sits with her in the kitchen, his back rigid as a board. She’s such a strange woman; the way she moves and the way she turns on the little radio by the window, singing along as she cracks the eggs into the pan, flipping about her spatula as though it’s a conductor’s baton. It’s all very odd, so unlike the kind of person Oikawa had always imagined a mother to be, so unlike the kind of person he’d have thought _Ushijima’s_ mother to be.

When she’s finished making breakfast she leaves the radio on. She leads Oikawa out into the dining area, her hands full of eggs and rice, humming along to herself. Oikawa follows along tentatively behind her; this is a new area of the house, one he hasn’t yet seen. She opens the door with her foot.

The dining room is much like the living room, though smaller, with a higher ceiling. There aren’t any chairs, only a number of meticulously-ironed floor cushions the colour of a Japanese maple in the throes of autumn; the table is long and low and gleaming, not a single scratch, made of the same impossibly dark wood as the table in the living room. An altar graces the south-west corner of the room, a small cone of incense lit and letting thin wafts of smoke curl into the air, and Oikawa finds the scent of it vaguely familiar; it takes him a few moments to realise that the smell comprises part of Ushijima’s own scent, and he imagines the huge body bowed at the altar, eyes closed, praying to his ancestors.

“I really want to modernise the place,” Ushijima’s mother says suddenly, as though she can read his mind. “But it’d be a shame, don’t you think? This house has been here for centuries… I can’t bring myself to move away from it, either.” She sets down the food, going to a small oak cabinet and taking out a number of condiments and laying them between her plate and Oikawa’s. The setter feels so out of place, his soul sitting five inches out of line with his body; this, too, appears to be noticed.

“My name is Kaede, by the way – the Ushijima part you already know, of course. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself to you properly yet.”

Oikawa bobs his head; _Kaede_. Somehow the way it rings in his mind seems fitting. “I would introduce myself, but I believe you already know about me.”

Kaede laughs. “Oh, I do. Wakatoshi talks about you often, did you know that? Even before you came here the first time. When he was still in middle school he would make me watch your matches with him. He has them all on disc.” Her eyes cut into his and he tries his very best not to blush furiously. Kaede’s voice lowers and her tone becomes a little more serious. “Oikawa-kun, my son has harboured an obsession with you that I began to worry about at first. But he has a very one-track mind, you understand, so I soon began to see it as something natural to his person.”

Oikawa waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. She merely begins to eat, Oikawa watching her fingers as they deftly move between condiments and chopsticks; he’s vaguely reminded of Ushijima’s fingers at the training camp.

“I know what’s happened.”

Oikawa, his hand half-raised to his mouth, pales.

“Oh, Oikawa-kun,” she sighs, laying down her chopsticks and gazing at him from across the table. Such staring would have usually unsettled him, but the softness of her eyes and the sympathetic set of her face is more… comforting than anything. “You know, I’ve seen all of this before. I’ve seen that exact expression on the face of one of my own children, did you know?”

Oikawa shakes his head; she must be talking about her other son, the one Ushijima had told him about – the one _like him_. But he hadn’t known – nor had he expected – that she’d been through something like this before. But it would explain the practiced ease with which she’s digesting everything.

“His name is Mitsuru. He lives in America, so I don’t see him much apart from photographs. He’s such a marvellous boy – very clever, too! He wants to be a doctor.” Oikawa stares down at his food, not particularly hungry; he eats anyway, listening to Kaede talk about this son of hers, this Mitsuru… the more she talks, the more animated and affectionate her voice gets, the more relaxed his shoulders feel. His heart grows lighter and heavier all at the same time.

Kaede, about a minute later, pauses. Oikawa glances up from his plate to see her gazing at him again, her chin cradled against the heel of her hand.

“He’s lucky,” Oikawa says impulsively. He hadn’t planned on speaking at all. “Mitsuru, I mean. He’s lucky to have a mother like you.”

Any other woman, Oikawa believes, would have blushed and waved a dismissive hand, saying something like ‘oh, you! What a flatterer!’. But Kaede just continues to look at him, her eyebrows turned up slightly, something akin to a frown pulling at her lips. He knows that she understands what he’d meant, and she doesn’t say anything. He’s grateful for that.

“I told Wakatoshi to let you know that you’re welcome here for as long as you like. It’s just me and him at the moment, so things get a little lonely. I like you, Oikawa-kun. I’m not sure why.” She offers him a wry smile. He can’t help but to smile back.

Something about being with Ushijima’s mother quietens Oikawa’s nerves. The fluttering in his lungs dies down, and when he helps her clear up the dishes his hands don’t shake as much. She talks and talks and talks, mostly about nothing in particular, because she is fully aware of the soothing nature of her voice. She is, Oikawa realises, as sharply observant as her son is oblivious, and from time to time he comes to wonder whether or not she actually _can_ read his mind.

“I think it’s nice,” Oikawa mentions offhandedly, peering through the kitchen window and out into the narrow side-garden. “The house. It’s not like my house in the city. It’s… kind of like a yakuza house.”

Kaede bursts out laughing. “A yakuza house! My, you’re probably right – my family has been here as long as the house has, so God knows we might have had a few yakuza here and there. The place is old but it has good bones. That’s what the neighbours always say about our family, too – old but with good bones.”

Oikawa is well aware of Ushijima’s father, and how Ushijima had taken his mother’s surname instead. He isn’t sure _why_ exactly, but upon hearing his mother say something like that, he feels like it was the right choice.

As she’d said, Kaede works from home that day; she lays all her books and papers and her laptop out over the table in the dining room, donning a pair of reading glasses and an entirely serious expression. Once she begins to work she stops talking, but Oikawa doesn’t mind. Just knowing she’s there is enough.

He takes the opportunity to explore.

The house, he discovers, is long and low, the second storey consisting only of Ushijima’s bedroom, a spare room, and a bathroom. All the rooms look similar but are all individual in their own way; it would be easy to get lost, but somehow Oikawa always manages to find his way. This, strangely enough, is the kind of house Oikawa would have expected Ushijima to have grown up in. He tries to imagine the ace in a yukata in summer, and the thought makes him want to laugh, but is also damnably attractive. Upon snooping around in a few of the downstairs closets, Oikawa does indeed find a yukata.

Oikawa has always been a snoop. It’s something he’ll readily admit, though he prefers to attribute it to ‘curiosity’ – in reality, though, he enjoys sticking his nose places it’s not wanted. Ushijima’s bedroom is perhaps the perfect place for that.

He throws open Ushijima’s closet first, and sees his uniforms – both school and sport – lined up neatly, washed and pressed. Oikawa doesn’t know what he’d expected, but he’d hoped for at least a few skeletons – _something_ interesting, at least. But it’s all very boring.

In fact, there’s nothing very interesting about Ushijima’s room at all. He has those plants on the windowsill, most of them named after seasons or various times of day. The soil is damp and there’s something about the way they’re arranged that is incredibly attentive. There’s also a small bookshelf in the corner of the room; Oikawa prods around, hoping to find a porno or something hidden at the back, but it’s all just children’s storybooks, old with frayed bindings. Very disappointing.

Just as he considers giving up, he sits down heavily on the bed and swings his legs back and forth; when his foot swings beneath the bed it hits something hard, and he drops down to peer beneath the frame. There’s nothing much under there except a few rolled-up posters, but there’s a box, plain and unmarked.

Ushijima doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d leave something unlabelled.

Sitting on the floor, Oikawa pulls the box out from beneath the bed and flips off the lid. At first glance it seems as uninteresting as everything else had – a pile of clear disc cases, at least fifteen of them, all with plain silver discs, the kind you buy that are already empty. But the disks, at least, are labelled neatly in black marker; they all say the exact same thing, the only difference being the number that follows the letters.

 _Aobajōsai._ Aobajōsai versus somebody. Kittagawa Daiichi. Recordings from junior high, from middle school. These… these are all recordings of Oikawa’s matches, ever since middle school. He can tell by the dates inscribed on the bottom of the discs. Pressing one hand to his lips he takes the cases out of the box, placing them on the floor by his thigh and shuffling over to Ushijima’s desk, booting up the computer.

 _Of course Ushiwaka doesn’t have a password…_ Oikawa thinks thinly. He considers poking around for any incriminating material, but Ushijima’s harddrive is probably just as mind-numbingly boring as the rest of his room, so he decides not to bother. Instead he inserts a disc into the drive.

The only thing left in the box is a notebook. It’s small and generally unnoticeable; he flips it open as the video begins to play. The first page is marked with a ‘1’, corresponding to the number on the disc Oikawa had just put into the computer. When it starts Oikawa recognises it as a match from junior high.

Everything written beneath that ‘1’ is a scrupulous analysis of Oikawa’s team. A shiver tears up his spine; sure, he’d done his own analysis, but never to this extent. What’s so strange about it, though, is that it’s all _numbers_ , sums and equations and algebra. Lines. Lots and lots of lines and grids and markings Oikawa can’t understand. He flips through the rest of the pages and finds that he can’t make sense of any of it.

 _Ushiwaka…_ Oikawa stares down as the numbers begin to swim in front of his eyes. _For a boring guy, you’re really fucking weird._

* * *

 

 “Ah, I’m sorry.” Reon tips his pencil against the desk, his cheek against his hand, gazing across the classroom aisle at Ushijima. “But you look like shit.”

Ushijima, who had previously been gazing listlessly down at the enamelled surface of his desk, only registers the words vaguely; it takes him a few solid moments to look up at his friend. Reon, as per usual, is right. Ushijima looks awful. Even Tendou had noticed – in fact, he’d been the first one to notice when Ushijima had arrived at Shiratorizawa that morning – and he’d been so disconcerted by Ushijima’s uncharacteristic paleness that he hadn’t said a single word.

“You’re not sick, right?” Reon continues. He speaks lowly, his tone calm and even, which Ushijima appreciates – he can always count on Reon to be entirely unsurprised, though he knows that if he were to disclose the events between him and Oikawa, even Reon would have to react _somehow_. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m not,” Ushijima replies. “I… I’m just worrying.” He catches sight of himself in the windowpane, though only briefly, and sees how odd the pale pallor of his face is, almost chalky in the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. He turns away, rubbing a hand tiredly through his hair. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Oikawa. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking of the distress and of the tears and of the way Oikawa had so desperately clung to his shirt. His palms are clammy with concern. “There is someone I’m worried about.”

A small smile tugs at Reon’s lips and he places down his pencil, regarding Ushijima like a mother would a child; Reon has always been that kind of person, and while he doesn’t make it particularly obvious, he cares for his friends as though they’re his family. Ushijima especially. He’s known Reon the longest, after all. “You can’t tell me about them, can you?”

Ushijima shakes his head.

“Tell coach I can’t come to practice this afternoon,” the ace adds after a few moments of silence; Reon’s eyebrows shift a little up his forehead, dark skin crinkling between them. _Ushijima Wakatoshi electing to skip practice?_ His mouth opens to ask about _just what kind of important this person must be_ to cause Ushijima to do something so utterly unlike him – but he notes the gauntness beneath Ushijima’s eyes and the disarray of his hair, so he doesn’t.

 

He can barely concentrate at all.

This, for the most part, is very unlike him. Ushijima has a one-track mind, which proves a blessing when used correctly, but when he’s distracted like this that same mindfulness can be just as much of a curse as it is a blessing. His teachers notice it; his friends notice it; pretty much _everybody_ notices it, but nobody says a word about it. Nobody asks him what’s wrong, because it would take a special kind of idiot not to realise that if there’s one thing Ushijima values, it’s his privacy.

He can’t eat. He sits and picks his food into tiny little pieces between his fingernails. _Is Oikawa eating properly? Has he thrown up again? How is he feeling?_ Eventually, becoming too overwhelmed, Ushijima excuses himself and slips out onto the roof of the building. It’s not empty; there are a few groups of students sprawled out here and there, soaking up the sun, but it’s empty enough for Ushijima to be able to pull out his phone and dial his mother’s number without having to worry about his voice carrying.

“Wakatoshi, aren’t you at school?” his mother’s voice asks when she picks up. Ushijima leans against the metal parapet, gazing down disconnectedly at the students in the courtyard below.

“Yes. Can I talk to Oikawa?”

There’s a pause, then a hesitant “Well, all right,” from his mother. And then there’s silence, Ushijima’s heartbeat rising up and filling his entire chest cavity.

“Ushiwaka-chan, you’re a bit obsessive! It’s creepy, stop it.” Oikawa’s whiney drawl has never been so comforting. Ushijima rubs a hand over his face, sighing in relief.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice tight. Oikawa scoffs.

“Of course I am. I’m not weak, Ushiwaka-chan – your mom is so nice, you know! –” Kaede laughs in the background “– I don’t know why you’re such a misery guts.” His voice softens a little, gets a little quieter. “I’m okay now.”

Ushijima’s smile is gentle and barely there against the receiver. “Good. I’m going to head straight home from school this afternoon.” He can practically feel the bristling need for Oikawa to make some sort of snide comment.

He doesn’t. He only makes a soft noise of acknowledgement; Ushijima opens his mouth to say something, emotion welling at the back of his tongue, but before he gets the chance to speak there’s turbulence from the other end of the line as his mother unduly wrestles the phone from Oikawa’s hands.

“Wakatoshi, dear, on your way home could you get a few radishes from the store? I checked with Mrs Tachibana and they’re all sold out, and Sendai radishes are my favourites.”

“Yes,” Ushijima replies. “I’ll remember.”

He doesn’t get a chance to speak to Oikawa again.

On one hand he’s glad that his mother is taking good care of the setter; on the other hand, of course, he’s rather disconcerted that he can’t be there to take care of him himself, especially when the wounds are still very raw, and Oikawa is still very scared. He presses the edge of his phone to his lips as he gazes down at the students in the courtyard, lost in thought for a few moments before he shakes his head and heads back inside.

“You’ll be okay?” Reon asks just as they’re about to leave at the end of the day; he catches the back of Ushijima’s blazer, dark eyes intent and more than a little concerned. Ushijima dips his head.

“I will. I promise.” He claps a firm hand to Reon’s shoulder, and they stand for a moment in a strange little bubble of mutual understanding. Reon nods, then, and heads out towards the gym.

Ushijima can’t remember ever having felt this anxious before. The memories of his childhood are hazy at times, and the only comparable thing he can remember is when his father had moved away and left him with a void even his mother’s voracious personality couldn’t fill. Is he afraid of something? Of losing something? Or of gaining something he doesn’t want?

He thinks about that as he sits on the train, picking at the skin of his thumb until it bleeds, then sticking it in his mouth and pressing his tongue to the wound until it stems. He gets off a few stops further into the city, heading over to a small convenience store located behind one of the big supermarkets. He buys three radishes, making sure they’re long enough and firm enough and not bruised anywhere; upon heading to the counter to pay he picks up a packet of dog treats and some wood polish.

And then he stops.

A particular aisle to his left catches his attention, a jungle of shrink-wrapped packages and bottles. He steps in closer, peering in at the labels. The box that caught his eye is pink and brightly labelled, the text sprawling in obnoxiously florid font over the front of it.

_Rapid Result Pregnancy Test! With one of the highest accuracy rates yet, wait only mere minutes for the big news!_

Ushijima’s stomach lurches uncomfortably. He takes the box from the shelf and tucks it under his arm.

The box isn’t big and doesn’t weigh much, but it feels like an anvil crushing his thigh as he cradles the plastic bag in his lap on the train home. His eyes remain glued to the cheap gleam of the pink cardboard, and he shoves it down to the bottom of the bag with a shaky inhale.

The first thing he wants to do when he gets home is to find Oikawa. Instead, however, Ushijima takes the shopping into the kitchen and unloads the radishes and the dog treats, slipping the pregnancy test into his schoolbag before going to greet his mother, who still sits at the dining table with her work sprawled about her.

“Oikawa-kun is resting upstairs,” she tells him, nodding to the staircase. Ushijima thanks her with a nod.

In a way, walking down the narrow hall towards his room is very much like walking to his doom, or to the executioner’s block. He has to constantly remind himself that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that there’s no guillotine waiting him, merely a sleepy young man with long legs and an exhausted heart. When he reaches his bedroom he eases open the door as silently as he can; there’s a swell in the blankets where Oikawa lies wrapped up in the comforter, the window and curtains open to let in the cool whispers of the afternoon air.

Ushijima sets down his bag. He busies himself with taking off his uniform, changing into clothes that are easier to move in; he doesn’t like the stiffness of his uniform collar, nor the way the seams and buttons strain over his muscles when he bends. After pulling a shirt over his head he looks over to Oikawa who, at the movement and quiet sounds in the room, has begun to stir. Sleepy hazel eyes peer over the parapet of the blankets, beautiful soft hair tousled from sleep. Ushijima’s gut tightens – it always does whenever he sees Oikawa in his bed like this. Approaching the bed he perches on the side of it, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He leans over Oikawa’s legs, the setter wriggling onto his back and sighing heavily, rubbing his eyes with long fingers.

Ushijima wants to touch him. He wants to touch him and kiss him and hold him; Oikawa looks so beautiful like this, so warm and soft and fragrant and _lovely._ Apprehension hangs heavy and bitter on the back of his tongue at the feeling, because it’s very much unfamiliar. Ushijima has always been familiar with raging, jealous lust, possessiveness, but never something so gentle. Even in middle school, despite the fact that he’d thought his piano teacher was beautiful, he’d never wanted to hold her.

There are different kinds of art in this world, Ushijima rationalises as he watches Oikawa grimace and turn his face back into the pillow. There is the objective kind, like paintings hung on the walls of an art gallery, or old artefacts kept in glass cases. They’re pleasing to the eyes, but the hands remain empty, an invisible barrier erected between the object and the viewer. But there is art that is entirely inclusive – while often not particularly thought of as _art_ – such as the peaches from Ushijima’s childhood, or newborn children, or the face of a loved one. Ushijima’s piano teacher had been artful, but he had been content merely looking at her.

Oikawa, however, inspires something new. He inspires the desire – to the point where it’s almost unbearable – for Ushijima to drown in him, to _consume_ him until the barriers between their bodies melt away and two become one. Ushijima draws in a shaky breath, gently touching his fingers to the soft hollow of Oikawa’s throat.

“How are you feeling?” He’s so close he can barely hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose in a pout, letting out a gruff _hmph_ as he flings his arms up over his head, fixing Ushijima with eyes still hazed by sleep. “I was fine until you came and woke me up. Dumbass.” His actions transgress his words, though, and in his sleepy vulnerability Oikawa fists a hand in Ushijima’s shirt and drags him down so he can press his face into the spiker’s neck, breathing deep and closing his eyes. Impulsively, Ushijima takes hold of his jaw and kisses him. It’s not a sweet kiss, but it’s not particularly violent, either. There’s only the slightest slip of Oikawa’s tongue against his own as he sighs so sweetly into the kiss.

“I brought you something,” Ushijima murmurs against the setter’s lips.

“Hmm? A gift, Ushiwaka-chan? How gentlemanly of you.” As Ushijima straightens up he curls a hand around Oikawa’s waist, raising him into a sitting position. Reaching down to his bag at the foot of the bed he draws out the little pink box, the edges a little dented from where it had sat beneath the radishes.

Oikawa doesn’t realise what it is at first. He takes the box from Ushijima’s hand for a better look, brows pulling low and eyes squinting a little. When the reality sinks in he pales, purposefully averting his gaze elsewhere, _anywhere._

“It would be best to make sure. You could see a doctor about it, or wait, but I figured –,”

“I _can’t_ ,” Oikawa hisses, thrusting the box back into the ace’s hands and pulling the covers up over his head, once more submerging himself. “I can’t do it.” His voice is muffled.

Ushijima won’t let him hide. Not this time.

He yanks back the covers, revealing Oikawa curled in on himself like a spring, all warm skin and long limbs. He’s wearing one of Ushijima’s pyjama shirts, which Ushijima tries very hard not to be distracted by. “We don’t have a choice.” There’s no mirth and no softness to his voice. It’s the voice he uses to get his team in line, to bring order in chaos. It’s an _order_. Oikawa shivers and sits up.

“Just give me some time, all right? I’ll do it _later_. But I _will_ do it. Happy now?”

Even Ushijima can sense the venomous sprig of sarcasm stuck between the setter’s teeth. He reaches out, ignoring Oikawa’s flinching, and curls his hand around the back of the setter’s neck, pulling their faces close together. “I understand you’re scared. I’m…” _I am also scared._ He doesn’t say it, but it hangs heavy in the air between them all the same.

Oikawa glares at him, the dislike he’d had for Ushijima previously resurfacing like bile in his gullet. Something about the test in its little pink box makes him incredibly bitter and _angry_. He isn’t sure why.

“Were you all right today?” Ushijima asks, diverting the subject rather gracelessly, a little unsettled by Oikawa’s fiery eyes.

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies with a toss of his head, knocking Ushijima’s hand aside. “What do you think I am, five? I can take care of myself, pregnant or not.”

They both fall silent. _Pregnant._ It’s the word that’s consumed both their minds but hearing it actually _said_ … Ushijima reaches up to touch Oikawa’s face, just below the angle of his jaw. Oikawa doesn’t look away; if anything, his eyes only grow firmer.

“You do understand you’ll have to take responsibility, right?” the setter murmurs smoothly as he leans in, his fingers once more finding the front of Ushijima’s shirt. He yanks the ace in to kiss him again, his lips dropping open and his quick, catlike tongue dragging across Ushijima’s lower lip. “Responsibility for what you’ve done to me.” Oikawa’s voice is wet and hot as he practically pants out the words.

Ushijima doesn’t reply – at least not verbally. Even though he’s a little thrown off guard by Oikawa’s sudden aggressiveness, he grips the setter’s waist, hauling him into his lap so one pale thigh lies on either side of his hips. Oikawa doesn’t try to mask the gasp of surprise when he’s manhandled so roughly; he fixes Ushijima with pupils so dilated his eyes are almost black.

Even for Oikawa, this is new.

“You ought to know me better than that by now, Oikawa,” Ushijima mutters as he works open the buttons of Oikawa’s – well, _Ushijima’s_ , technically – shirt, revealing the soft expanse of pale skin over his sternum. Ushijima peppers kisses all over Oikawa’s collarbones, the hard ridge of them pressed against his teeth, his lips chasing the passage of his fingers until his head is bent uncomfortably low. Oikawa’s thighs clench around him and he tangles his fingers in Ushijima’s hair, pulling his face in closer. It’s only after Ushijima has sucked a rather large and rather dark hickey just below Oikawa’s left clavicle that he straightens, eyes deliciously lidded. “I don’t run away.”

Oikawa’s hand tightens in his hair, yanking him in for another deep, long kiss, their tongues taking time to explore one another’s mouths. In some obscure kind of way Oikawa feels like he’s getting fucked long and slow and deep; Ushijima’s tongue is firmer than his own, battling into his mouth instinctively, running over his teeth, curling around his own tongue. Oikawa moans wetly and strokes his thumbs up Ushijima’s neck, over the lobes of his ears, and up into his hair.

“I won’t run away,” Ushijima promises in a whisper between kisses and slides his rough, warm hands up beneath the soft flannel material of Oikawa’s shirt. His fingers know the path from Oikawa’s navel to his chest by heart by now, and the setter shivers in his lap when he presses his fingers into the mounds of flesh. _I love it,_ he thinks. _I love each part of your body, each part of your mind._ But he keeps those thoughts to himself. _I could drown in you._

Oikawa’s hips roll insistently down into Ushijima’s lap, his glittering eyes catching Ushijima’s only for a second before he moans into the ace’s hair. “You’re still an asshole…”

Ticked, Ushijima hauls Oikawa backwards and tosses him onto the bed. Oikawa watches with his tongue caught between his teeth in a small catlike smile as Ushijima pulls his shirt off over his head, revealing each hard plane of muscle, dark skin stretched taut over them. Ushijima wastes no time crawling between Oikawa’s legs, burying his hands deep in the setter’s soft hair and kissing him intently. Humming appreciatively, Oikawa shifts his hips up, grinding them against Ushijima’s.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Oikawa asks dreamily, still not entirely gripped by wakefulness. Ushijima presses a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Slowly,” Ushijima rumbles as he passes his hands down Oikawa’s sides. He lets his nose skim down the pale, elegant column of his neck, breath hot against it as he speaks. “Deeply.”

Oikawa shivers again.

Ushijima finishes unbuttoning Oikawa’s shirt, flinging it open in order to fully appreciate the particular softness and fullness of the setter’s body. The muscles in his abdomen draw taut with each breath; Ushijima drags his hands down the length of Oikawa’s body, just _looking_ , appreciating him in a way he’s never been able to.

“S-stop staring…” Oikawa presses his hands against his face; his cheeks are flushed and hot. He’s _blushing_. “It’s ugly…” He’s so used to being unsatisfied with his body, so to have someone look at it so hungrily, with such _desire –_

His shorts are tugged off his legs. He doesn’t fight it. He lies there like dough, pliant and malleable, each press of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s fingers leaving an indent that will never truly disappear. The desperation he’s become so accustomed to is fading, little by little, and the whole situation just feels like a wet dream. A really good wet dream. Oikawa lets his legs fall open as Ushijima’s hands press apart his thighs, his fingertips sinking into the supple flesh.

“Can I admit something?” Ushijima asks as he uses a thumb to part the flushed lips of Oikawa’s cunt, which has already started to grow damp.

 _A bit of an odd time, Ushiwaka-chan,_ Oikawa thinks wryly. “Yeah…” his voice comes out of him in a pleased sigh and he presses himself harder against Ushijima’s fingers.

“Rationally, I don’t want you to be pregnant.” Ushijima’s eyes don’t meet his. “I know it would be an obstacle you don’t deserve, that it would ruin many things for both of us. But…” His brows pull low, then, and he presses the pad of his thumb to Oikawa’s quickly-swelling clit, drawing back the hood of flesh and giving it a hard grind. Oikawa gasps sharply, his hips rising off the bed a little bit. “But I also want you to be.”

Oikawa’s face is burning. He hadn’t expected that admission, certainly not; that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect him. “W-what are you talking about?” he presses out. “You’re only… seventeen… you can’t have a kid –,” His voice cracks on the last word as Ushijima slides a deliciously thick finger inside him, curling up and rubbing at that golden little spot behind Oikawa’s pubic bone.

“Because,” Ushijima explains in little more than a growl; he leans down again so their faces are a mere hair’s breadth apart, adding a second finger to the first and rubbing them deep inside the setter. His other hand pushes the hair back from Oikawa’s face, revealing heavily lidded eyes that can barely stay open and lips that are red and swollen. “You would be tied to me. Inextricably. You’d have no way to escape me if I was to make you pregnant.” He mouths at Oikawa’s neck, his tongue lathing over fading hickeys. These are words they’d said before, but each time they’re repeated they sound fresh and violent and arousing. Oikawa’s cunt clenches around him at his words, but the setter says nothing, the only thing coming from his mouth being hard, short breaths. “And everybody else would know, too. They’d know that you belonged to me. I want it because it would make you _mine_.” The last word is punctuated by a particularly deep, sharp trust from Ushijima’s fingers, causing Oikawa to whine loudly, fingernails scrabbling up Ushijima’s back.

“How cruel,” he breathes, licking his lips as he grinds his hips on Ushijima’s fingers, trying to get them back on that spot again. “You’d trap me like that, Ushiwaka-chan? You’d render me useless for everything except bearing your children, hm? You’re right…” he draws in a shuddering breath, yanking at Ushijima’s hair so their eyes meet. “You could. I’d be trapped. But you know what?” His teeth tug insistently at Ushijima’s lower lip, coaxing his tongue into his mouth. They kiss messily for a few seconds before Oikawa breaks away with a little intake of breath, smiling a small, wicked smile. “You could never render me useless. You don’t have it in you. If I was useless…” His gaze flickers from Ushijima’s mouth to his eyes. “You wouldn’t have wanted me in the first place.”

Ushijima feels like laughing. It’s true – the thought of Oikawa being unable to do anything except have his kids is attractive, but the ace can’t shake the desire he feels whenever he watches Oikawa play. After all, Ushijima had first sought after Oikawa’s talent. It would be a waste.

Oikawa smirks, dragging his nails sharply down Ushijima’s torso. “I’m sure you can find other ways to trap me…” Leaning in close, he presses his lips to the ace’s ear, rolling his hips hard against his fingers. “Make me into an addict.”

Ushijima sits back, pulling his fingers out of Oikawa’s cunt and bringing them to his lips. With one hand still anchored on the setter’s thigh, eyes never leaving those below him, he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking off the heady precum; Oikawa’s eyes follow the dip and flick of his tongue with a very distinct gleam of hunger.

The flushed body beneath him looks so delectable that Ushijima wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into the skin and not stop until Oikawa is just one big bruise. Oikawa’s hands, which had been lying limp above his head, drift over to press against the hard ridges of Ushijima’s abdomen, dragging lazily down until they hook into the waistband of his sweats, which are already obscenely tented. He yanks down Ushijima’s pants without much ceremony, letting his thick, achingly hard cock free. Oikawa smiles thinly. _Like the return of an old friend._

When Ushijima goes to spread Oikawa’s legs, the setter slaps his hands away. “I can do it myself,” he says crisply; he lets his legs drop open, thighs spread and glistening from how wet he is. He reaches down with his hands, using his long, dextrous fingers to spread himself open for Ushijima, the pink folds of his cunt sticky and wet and _begging_.

But Ushijima doesn’t let himself drop forwards to sink himself deep inside Oikawa’s soft, accommodating body. Even though his mind is hazy with arousal he still has the mindfulness to reach down into his bag and pluck out a box of condoms that he’d bought along with the test. Oikawa frowns up at him. “Does it even matter now?”

Ushijima replies by taking out a small foil package and tearing it open with his teeth; he hasn’t had many lovers and isn’t very practiced in the art of putting on rubbers like this, and he ascribes it mostly to luck that he’s able to roll the condom down his shaft in one go. It feels a bit strange, but with Oikawa spread out like a flower in front of him, he’s able to forget about it pretty quickly.

“It’s for the best,” Ushijima tries to placate Oikawa’s displeased pout. “I could just not fuck you at all, you know.”

Oikawa whines at that.

“Spread yourself open for me.”

Silently, Oikawa obeys, eyelashes fluttering as he raises his hips and spreads apart his swollen lips.

Ushijima finally lets his hips dip forwards, pushing slowly into Oikawa’s succulent, pliant body. He sinks forwards until his hips are flush against the setter’s, his elbows planted firmly on either side of Oikawa’s head. Like this, Oikawa is able to reach around his waist and trail his fingers up the taut muscles of Ushijima’s back, right up to the shallow dip between his shoulder blades where he can press down hard enough to make the ace kiss him again.

“Move,” Oikawa sighs with an impudent shift of his hips, his walls fluttering around the thick cock inside him. Even with the condom on it still feels incredible, as though his mind will take flight and leave him forever. His vision begins to fizz as soon as Ushijima rolls his hips, not really pulling out but instead pushing himself in impossibly deep. He lets out a low, breathy moan against Oikawa’s cheek, kissing along the skin lazily as he sets a rather temperate pace.

This is different. It’s not the wild pounding that they love so much; Ushijima’s body is moving in a completely different way. His spine is rolling, his hips flexing rather than moving like pistons. Instead of the fierce heat that raced over their skin the other times they fucked, the sensations now are a lot more visceral, an ache deep in their bodies. Oikawa’s head tips back and he allows Ushijima to lavish kisses over his throat, paying meticulous attention to each pore. The ace’s strong, burly arms wrap around him and lift him a little off the mattress, holding their bodies together in an embrace. Oikawa wraps his arms around Ushijima’s neck in return, pushing his burning face into his shoulder.

“It’s good,” Oikawa practically wheezes as Ushijima’s pelvis grinds against his swollen clit; the dual stimulation makes his eyes snap shut and his jaw clench. Every part of his body is stuttering and slowly losing agency. “I’m gonna melt…” Just as his moan breaks up an octave, deep and breathy, Ushijima kisses him again and steals away the breath Oikawa is trying so hard to retain. It’s more a press of mouths than anything.

“You tell me to make you an addict,” Ushijima presses against Oikawa’s flushed lips, “but you never stopped to consider that I might… become one as well…” His hips roll again, this time a little harder, and Oikawa almost _wails._

“You’ve been addicted to me since middle school,” the setter gasps. He has the audacity to grin. “ _Admit it._ ”

Ushijima presses Oikawa’s body hard into the mattress. He cradles the setter’s face in his hands and things grow infinitely more intense, as though some kind of switch had been hit. As much as Oikawa’s eyes want to slip shut, as much as his vision is blurred by tears, he can’t tear his gaze away from Ushijima’s hawklike eyes. They watch him intensely – too intensely. Oikawa desperately tries to focus on the fingers at his cheeks, the heavy body pressing the air out of his lungs, but he’s slipping – it’s too intense, too _intense_ , his blood boiling over and his muscles unfurling from his bones. “I…” He sounds like he’s in pain. Ushijima’s cock throbs hot and hard and thick inside him. His long hands scrabble down Ushijima’s back to gather him as close as he can; he doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Ushijima is everywhere around him, as ubiquitous as a fog, consuming each particle of his being.

“Tōru,” Ushijima breathes, his hips trembling and thighs quickly losing their strength. He’s _close_ , so close to cumming just from watching Oikawa falling apart. He wipes the tears from the setter’s cheeks, pressing their foreheads together, skin burning and vision failing. “Say my name.”

Oikawa shudders and gasps under him. “Wakatoshi,” he whispers, and then he says it again, louder. Ushijima reaches down between them to find the swollen, oversensitive cluster of nerves, rubbing Oikawa’s clit in slow, hard circles. A sob bursts from Oikawa’s lips and his hips begin to thrash, thighs quivering wildly. “Wakatoshi, please! Please…” The setter’s body twists and curls in Ushijima’s arms and he rubs faster, moving his hips with the only remaining strength he has.

“Cum for me, Tōru, only for me,” Ushijima encourages him. He presses his burning lips to Oikawa’s burning cheek, his eyes finally shutting as pleasure beats in his ears. The only thing he can hear are Oikawa’s desperate gasps and the hammering of his own heart.

They finish at the same time, reaching a crescendo so violent that it has Oikawa biting into the back of his own hand to stifle his scream; he bites so hard that his hand comes away smeared with blood. Ushijima is able to bury his face in Oikawa’s neck to stifle his loud, thunderous groan. He holds himself deep inside Oikawa as he cums, his fingers stuttering over the other’s clit, and when Oikawa’s cunt clenches around him it’s almost too painful to bear.

Oikawa says his name as he cums. Ushijima has never heard a sound like it.

Ushijima collapses next to Oikawa on the bed, his breath coming hard. For a while they lie there in silence, recovering their energy and regaining their breath. Ushijima moves first, though, raising himself onto his elbow and stroking the tips of his fingers over Oikawa’s face, flicking away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. At the sensation of his fingertips, Oikawa’s eyes ease open. “Ah…” he murmurs. “I feel like cooked spaghetti.”

Ushijima kisses his forehead and Oikawa hums, letting his eyes drift closed again. But he raises one of his hands, knocking the back of his knuckle against Ushijima’s cheek. “You’re gonna help me out, right?” he asks. “With this whole… baby thing.”

“Of course I will.” Ushijima doesn’t so much as hesitate in his reply. He walks his warm fingers down Oikawa’s body, over his stomach to just below his navel. Oikawa’s eyes lazily follow along and watch as Ushijima flattens his palm just over Oikawa’s womb, his thumb stroking against the skin. Oikawa’s hear falters in his chest. It’s an unpleasant feeling – one that makes him want to tear himself away and _run_. Run for the hills. He isn’t sure why. Perhaps it’s the sudden revelation that he’s lying in the arms of his worst enemy, pregnant with his child, in what is little less than utter domesticity. Sickening.

Outside, the afternoon had slipped away into a blue half-darkness, a few pale stars hanging at the crown of the sky. It had started raining, too, but neither of them had noticed: they’d both been too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else. The rain and the darkness made the warm light of Ushijima’s bedroom seem even warmer, and the two shifted closer together for a few minutes until Ushijima gets painfully to his feet in order to dispose of the condom. Oikawa gives a self-satisfied little smile when he sees the faint red lines spread all over the ace’s back.

He rolls over onto his stomach, stretching out his sore limbs. The sweat had dried so the sheets are no long damp, only warm from where their bodies had lain, and Oikawa truly believes that he’s never been more comfortable. He lets Ushijima nudge him to the side when he returns, slipping in between the covers and bundling them all up close, holding the setter close against him.

“You know,” Oikawa begins sheepishly, “I’ve actually been addicted to your dick from the moment you put it in me. Your tongue, too. I was, ah…” he swallows thickly. “I was a bit afraid of what I’d do if you decided to leave.” _Fuck, I hate admitting this. I can’t believe it._

Ushijima blinks slowly. “I’m not leaving. I’ve wanted your companionship for a long time, Oikawa, but wanting you _this_ way has only surfaced very recently. This kind of desire has been… something I haven’t experienced before. Not to this extent. But after seeing you melting on your own fingers in that bathroom stall I thought I was on fire; ever since then, I knew I had to have you. You have unearthed things I never knew I could feel.”

The setter blushes. “D-don’t say stupid things like that…” he mumbles petulantly into the pillow. “Anyway. Good. Because if you leave me alone now then I’m going to have to come after you and sell your organs on the internet to pay for childcare.”

Even Ushijima can find the humour in that, and he chuckles lowly, pressing his face in Oikawa’s hair. Oikawa’s fingers find the ace’s stomach and pinch the skin hard enough to make him flinch.

“Promise m’ you won’t leave.” Oikawa’s voice is slurred as his doziness hits him with the force of a freight train. “You gotta promise.”

“I promise,” Ushijima says in little more than a whisper. “I promise I won’t leave.”

“Mmh.” Oikawa’s little self-satisfied smile is back, and he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into Ushijima’s earthy warmth. “Good.”


	7. Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa so this is chapter 7/7!!! i'm kinda sad to see this fic end tbh but i want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's read and left kudos/comments! it means so much to me to see that yall like my fic <3
> 
> I have another two instalments planned for the 'three's a crowd' series (so dw the ride's not over yet) , and i've gotten a p good headstart on the next fic so stay tuned for that!!!!!! it will be titled 'storm in a teacup', so keep ur eyes peeled ;)

When Oikawa next comes to he doesn’t know where he is.

In fact, he can’t see anything at all – his surroundings have been absorbed into an impermeable blackness, something like a void – and no matter which direction he turns or which way he looks, he can see nothing but the endless blackness stretching out before him.

He tries to call out but no voice leaves him; he can’t see anything and he can’t hear anything and every passing moment the darkness seems to be drawing in closer. His heart begins to gallop along in his ribs, thrashing about, trying to get free. But just like Oikawa, it’s trapped.

Hesitantly, he tries to take a step forwards. Looking down he can see the ghostly pale skin of his feet and the pale blue of his veins swimming beneath it. His eyes follow up his leg, to his knee, and then –

But he can’t see any further than his knees, even if he bends over. Something broad and white is blocking his view and he impatiently puts his hand to it to try and move it out of the way. When he touches it he can _feel_ it, and he looks down in shock, his stomach shrivelling up inside him.

It’s him.

It’s his body.

His abdomen balloons out before him, huge and round and heavy. He’s draped in some sort of white fabric he can’t feel, and he clutches both hands at the swell. He can’t breathe; each breath he tries to draw in sends shooting pain down to where his uterus would normally be, though now he suspects that organ is horribly distended if the state of his body is anything to go by. He looks around wildly, trying in vain to make any noise, to find _anyone –_ but nobody is there.

Blood pounds in his ears as he takes first one step forwards, then another, a pain so great overtaking him that he’s fairly sure he’ll pass out if he doesn’t keep moving. His body cramps horribly and it takes every ounce of will he has not to crumple in a pathetic heap.

The silence is broken by a hum, at first no louder than the distant buzz of a swarm of insects, but as the seconds drag on the humming gets louder and Oikawa realises it to be the voices of children – how many, he can’t be certain – singing a song he remembers from his childhood when his father used to hold his little hands and dance around with him on his toes. As the voices grow louder Oikawa grows colder, the very core of his body rigid and icy. Moving grows harder. The voices grow louder. He can’t make out the words, but he knows the tune. Louder and louder until it’s a scream in his ears, louder than his own panicking heart –

They’re talking to him. The voices are calling out to him and as they do another agonising cramp tears through him, causing him to falter in his steps. He doubts his legs will be able to keep him upright much longer, what with the impossible weight of his own body dragging him down. _Why, why?_ the little voices call to him. Something is _moving_ inside of him, thrashing and writhing. Oikawa presses a hand to his mouth to try and stop himself from being sick. _Why, why!_ Oikawa opens his mouth to scream. Nothing comes out.

He looks down at his abdomen: the skin has begun to boil, bubbling up and distending where that _thing_ is moving around inside him. And then Oikawa throws his head back and shrieks as the pressure suddenly drops between his legs, pain so terrible clinging to his spine that his vision begins to close in. Horrified at the sudden weightlessness of his body, Oikawa drops his gaze to the ground. Between his legs is a puddle of viscous blood so red it’s almost black, its consistency that of thick tar. It’s bubbling, boiling, and from its surface hundreds of tiny deformed faces rise, a forest of little clutching hands rising alongside them. _Why, why!_ Oikawa tries to scream, but he can’t. He can’t scream, he can’t move, he can’t look away from the gaping mouths and eye sockets of the tiny little _things –_

 

Oikawa wakes up to a shriek that almost splinters his bones. There’s something on his face and he tries to bat it off, slapping it away and shoving whatever is trying to hold him down, to restrain him; his palm connects with something in an almighty slap, and as the scream dies away he’s surrounded by silence. His vision slowly returns to him.

The scream, he realises, had been his own. Ushijima had been the thing Oikawa had been trying to shove away, and his face had been the thing Oikawa had slapped. The setter sits curled in on himself, breathing hard, his skin cold and clammy and prickling. Tiny deformed faces dance on the edge of his mind and he clutches his hands to his chest to try and stop them from shaking, and, unable to look at Ushijima’s shocked expression any longer, he looks down.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Just like in his dream, there’s blood all over his thighs and the sheets; panic rising in his throat again, Oikawa begins to shake violently, his breath coming in gasps that border on cries. A long, high wail rises from his lips and Ushijima reaches out to take hold of his wrists, confining them in a grip so tight it’s almost painful.

“Stop it,” Oikawa cries, but Ushijima doesn’t let go, no matter how much Oikawa struggles against him. “Let go!”

“It’s all right,” Ushijima says. The low, smooth baritone restores some semblance of sanity to Oikawa’s brain, but the sight of all the blood makes him sick; instead of trying to tear himself away from Ushijima, Oikawa instead gets as close to him as he can. As far away from the blood as he can. It’s only in Ushijima’s arms that the sobs begin to wrack his body, tears soaking into Ushijima’s warm skin.

Ushijima is pale, his gut knotted with concern, his eyes riveted on the bright smear of blood over the sheets. It’s all over Oikawa’s thighs, as though he’d wet himself, but with blood rather than urine – he doesn’t know where it’s from, why it’s _there_ , and he’s honestly so worried he could be sick. But he knows that if he were to panic as well, Oikawa would be even more distressed. So he swallows it.

The door bursts open not a few moments later, revealing Kaede dressed in her suit, obviously about to leave for work. He face is as white as a sheet, the colour odd against the bold red of her lipstick. “What’s happened?” she demands, vigilant eyes searching the room. “I heard screaming.” As she sees the blood and Oikawa’s crumpled form she looks even more worried, and she approaches them, placing a tentative hand on Oikawa’s back.

Ushijima shakes his head at her. _I don’t know what happened._

“Oikawa-kun?” Kaede asks in the experienced, gentle tone of a mother. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Oikawa doesn’t reply immediately. He slowly pushes away from Ushijima, sobs still shaking him; but as he raises his face, Ushijima and his mother realise that he’s no longer crying, but laughing tearily. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling.

“It’s my period.”

Ushijima exhales heavily, his entire body deflating with relief. His mother smiles at Oikawa, the colour slowly returning to her face. “I’ll go get you some pads. Do you need any painkillers?”

Oikawa nods, his abdomen still throbbing.

After she leaves the room, Oikawa gets out of bed and looks down at the bloody mess between his thighs. “I’m sorry,” he apologises tiredly.

“It’s all right,” Ushijima assures him as he pulls on his clothes, making to strip the bed. He bundles the dirty sheets up in a ball and drops it by the door before getting on old bath robe out of his wardrobe and wrapping the setter in it. Oikawa’s face is teary and snotty, but his muscles have relaxed in relief. “It’s so much…”

“The first day is always the worst,” Oikawa explains hoarsely. “Always has been. I… there’s always more blood with me than with others.”

Ushijima’s eyes remain on the bright red stain on the sheets.

“I’m not pregnant,” Oikawa says into the silence a few long moments later. “Why… why am I not happier?” A thin, mirthless smile plays at his lips.

Before Ushijima can reply, his mother returns holding a box of sanitary pads in one hand and a box of painkillers in the other. “I’ve got to run to work now, but you’ll take care of him, won’t you?” She looks decisively towards her son, who nods firmly. She kisses them both, smiles, and leaves in a flurry of expensive perfume.

Ushijima leads Oikawa to the bathroom holding the boxes under his arm. While Ushijima sets about filling the tub, Oikawa catches sight of the pregnancy test sitting forgotten on the counter, and he picks it up, turning it over in his hands.

“I’m gonna do it now,” he says without looking up.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

Oikawa just nods. He has to be sure.

The toilet is contained in a separate room, no larger than a closet; he draws his knees up tight as he unpacks the test, briefly reading the directions just to make sure he’s doing it right.

“Pee on a stick,” he murmurs as he holds the little plastic appendage between his legs. “Then wait.” He flushes the toilet and heads back into the main bathroom, the room already filling with steam, and he leans against the counter.

“Are you supposed to wave it around like that?” Ushijima asks curiously, coming to stand beside him and peer down at the test. The little window is still blank and Oikawa lets out a grunt of frustration, flapping it about again.

“It’s what they do in the movies.”

Ushijima’s hand is warm at the small of his back.

They wait in silence until the lines begin to show. “One line is positive, two lines is negative,” Oikawa murmurs, a little frown creasing his brow. His stomach lurches as the first line shows, and then slowly the other line appears, and they let out a heavy breath in unison.

“Negative,” Ushijima mumbles as Oikawa tosses the test into the trash bin.

“Negative,” Oikawa repeats.

Oikawa lets Ushijima undress him and take him to the bath, sitting him down on a stool that smells like fresh pine; Ushijima sits on a stool in front of him, facing him, and begins to wipe away the blood with a warm cloth. They don’t speak for a little while.

“You said you didn’t know why you don’t feel happier.” Oikawa almost doesn’t hear Ushijima speak.

“Ah… well, yeah. I guess I kinda got used to the idea of it, y’know? And I didn’t…” He draws in a shaky breath as the rough weave of the towel swipes up between his legs. _Don’t make me say it._ “I didn’t find it as awful.”

“Only because you weren’t thinking of the future.” Ushijima pauses, then, looking directly at him. “If you’d gotten pregnant – and decided to carry to term – your aspirations would be unachievable. Right now you would not be able to juggle both a child and a volleyball career, at least not to the standard you’re capable of.” His grip tightens a little on Oikawa’s thigh. “I couldn’t live with myself if I was the one who stopped you from reaching your fullest potential.”

Oikawa’s heard this before, but somehow it strikes him differently this time. Ushijima is being frank, and he’s right. He’s entirely right.

“You’re right.”

Ushijima finishes cleaning him up in silence, then they move to the bath, wooden and full of hot water that’s incredibly pleasant to the both of them. Oikawa washes Ushijima’s hair and feels a little sick at the domesticity. He’s even sicker at the knowledge that he doesn’t mind it at all. Ushijima then washes his in return, and Oikawa dozes off like a big cat against his chest, exhausted both physically and mentally.

He doesn’t remember moving from the bathroom back to the bedroom, but when Oikawa wakes up he’s clean and dressed and tucked into Ushijima’s bed, surrounded by clean, fragrant sheets.

“You have a fever.”

Oikawa dizzily opens his eyes to find Ushijima leaning over him, a thermometer in one hand and a cold compress in the other.

“Fever…?” Oikawa mumbles, raising a hand to press against his face. It’s true; he’s burning. Even he can tell. With a defeated sigh he falls back against the pillow, letting his eyes slip shut again. “Ushiwaka-chan, can you believe I thought I was pregnant because of a fever?”

Ushijima sits down beside him, laying the compress over the setter’s forehead. “You had every right to be worried, considering how many times I ejaculated inside you.” Oikawa flinches. _He’s so not smooth._ He feels like an absolute fool. “I will always make sure to wear a condom from now on.”

Oikawa looks at him in surprise, his fever forgotten. “You don’t… you plan on continuing this?”

Blinking, Ushijima nods as though Oikawa had just asked the most obscenely ridiculous question in the world. “Of course.” He leans in a little closer, then, his voice dropping. “I don’t plan on leaving, remember?”

Oikawa has to bite back the challenging smile that threatens to bubble to his lips.

After taking his temperature, Ushijima makes Oikawa some miso soup, and after trying to eat some of it (he can’t; he feels too nauseous) and consequently throwing up in the bathroom, Oikawa sleeps late into the afternoon. His body had been under incredible duress the last few days and needs all the sleep it can get in order to fully recover. Ushijima remains by his side for the most part of the next few days, leaving only to attend school on Friday. He ends up having to go and call on his coach in person; his coach is less than pleased that Ushijima – “You’re the team captain!” – has been missing both morning and afternoon practice sessions, but Ushijima bows his head and begs for leave, ascribing it as a ‘family emergency’. His coach, after gazing at him helplessly, waves his hand in dismissal and tells him to clear things up quickly.

On his way out of the school he runs into his team coming back from a warm-up run; Tendou, at least, seems to be bursting with questions, but Reon’s firm hand on his shoulder keeps his lips clamped shut. It’s Shirabu who looks at him with the most concern, though.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises to his team, bowing his head just as he had done for his coach.

“Don’t worry, Ushijima-san,” Shirabu replies firmly, his pale eyes shining with determination. “We’ll work hard until you come back.”

Ushijima feels something like gratitude swell in his chest. He leaves without another word.

“Does anyone know why he’s not gonna come?”

“Some kind of family emergency. At least that’s what I heard from class 5.”

On the train home, Ushijima sits with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Whenever he thinks of Oikawa his cheeks grow warm and it’s like he’s glowing, somehow – when he gets off at his stop he goes to the small kiosk, its sign freshly painted, and orders the loaf of bread his mother had asked him to pick up on the way home.

“Ushijima-kun, how nice to see you!” the baker greets him, wiping his hands on his apron. “Your mother sent you?”

Ushijima nods, then sees the baker’s little daughter waving a small, flour-covered hand. Ushijima likes her for some reason or another – she’s small for a girl her age with a sharp nose and a huge smile, so short she has to stand on her toes to reach the counter.

The baker hands him the loaf, and then says, “Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Milk-pan!” the little girl suddenly cries, scuttling away into the back room, arms thrown up over her head.

“Could I have some?”

“Milk bread?” the baker asks him curiously, his furry eyebrows rising high on his forehead; it’s strange for Ushijima to order something so sweet.

“Yes.”

“Well, absolutely! How many would you like?”

Ushijima orders two, taking them from the little girl in exchange for a handful of coins, which she gleefully shoves into the pockets of her dress before running away with a delighted squeal.

The milk bread, the baker tells him proudly, is fresh from the oven. Ushijima holds one in each hand, the soft, sticky dough wrapped in paper towel. They’re still warm.

Ushijima knows Oikawa has an unbridled love for milk bread. But despite the glimmer in the setter’s eyes, he throws up whatever he swallows, and so Ushijima has to wrap them up and put them in the fridge until Oikawa’s stomach can handle something more than soup.

By the time Sunday evening comes around, Ushijima’s body is aching from inactivity. His wrist is cramped from the hours he’d spent at the side of his bed gently stroking Oikawa’s burning forehead. The setter slept for the most part, waking only briefly when Ushijima brought him food.

His fever peaks sometime during the late afternoon on Monday, just after Ushijima returns from school, his body burning and his breath boiling in his lungs; Ushijima almost calls an ambulance, but Oikawa won’t let him. Ushijima physically feels Oikawa’s fever turn; he watches the setter’s face, crumpled in pain, open up and relax as the heat finally begins to ebb, sweaty fingers easing the death grip around the ace’s wrist. He sleeps a little longer after that, and by the time he gets up and entire day has slipped away.

“You slept for a long time,” Ushijima tells him when he wakes late in the afternoon the day after (after Ushijima got home from practice – he’d resumed going now that he knows Oikawa is all right). Oikawa, for the first time in what feels like forever, doesn’t feel like shit. He sits up, his head aching only a little, and takes the tall glass of water Ushijima offers him, downing it all in one go.

“How long was I out for?” the setter mumbles, rubbing at his eyes and his hair before flopping back down into the comfortable embrace of Ushijima’s bed.

“Almost twenty-four hours.” Ushijima appears amused; he then hands Oikawa his phone. “You received a few calls.”

“Did you answer any of them?” Oikawa demands, and Ushijima looks sheepishly away.

“Iwaizumi Hajime called fourteen times before I answered.”

Oikawa’s brow tightens in annoyance, but instead of whacking Ushijima like he knows he _should_ do, he opens the call log and finds a multitude of missed calls not only from Iwaizumi, but from his other friends as well. He redials Iwaizumi’s number, glaring at Ushijima, who raises his hands slightly in a gesture of apology.

“You!” Iwaizumi barks down the line as soon as he picks up. “I’ve been calling you for fucking _ever_! Where the hell are you? I called before and that dolt Ushiwaka picked up and told me you were sleeping – Oikawa! What are you doing? Where did you go?”

Once Iwaizumi’s shouting ends, Oikawa brings the phone back to his ear. “Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, it’s okay!” He licks his lips nervously, wondering whether or not he should tell Iwaizumi the details.

He probably should, but he decides to do it another time.

“I got sick and Ushiwaka happened across me and took me back to his place. I told you he was a good Samaritan, it really pisses me off.” He shoots a withering glance at Ushijima.

“So you’re there now?” Iwaizumi asks, and while he’s no longer shouting, he still doesn’t sound entirely happy. “Why didn’t you call me, dumbass? I almost pitched a fit when I found out you’d gone missing.”

Oikawa chews on the inside of his lip. “I was busy. I forgot.”

An exasperated sigh crackles down the line. “Fine. Whatever. At least now I know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, all right? And you tell Ushiwaka that if anything bad happens to you, I’ll skin him myself. Got it?”

“Got it, Iwa-chan! Thanks mom, I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up before Iwaizumi can yell at him again, tossing his phone somewhere in the mess of blankets and pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. When he hears no movement in the room he opens them again and sees Ushijima standing nervously at the foot of the bed. “What are you staring at?”

“Ah… my mother wants to speak to us.” According to the uncertain lilt in the ace’s voice, it’s not for anything good.

“…Right.” Oikawa, spurred on by the possibility of inflicting Ushijima Kaede’s wrath, pulls on some of his _own_ clothes and follows Ushijima downstairs to the living room.

“Sit down,” is the first thing Ushijima’s mother says when they enter. Ushijima and Oikawa sit silently across the low table, fists balled on their knees, not saying a word. Kaede looks between them, her face deadly stoic for once. Her stony expression is the spitting image of Ushijima’s, so much so that Oikawa finds it uncanny. “We need to have a talk. This is probably a talk I should have given you years ago.”

Oikawa flushes when he realises what she’s talking about, but the last thing he wants to do is to interrupt her. He settles for gnawing on the inside of his cheek instead.

“I’m glad this was all just a scare,” she begins. “But it can’t happen again, at least unless it’s planned.” The boys both stare down apologetically at the table, their reflections distorted a little in the polished mahogany surface. Warm amber light gleamed off every surface as the sun slants in, dipping towards the upturned faces of the mountains outside. They listen in silence as Kaede gives them a stern talking to, at the end of which they promise to use protection.

This is not a conversation Oikawa had ever wanted to have. Especially not with _Ushijima’s mother_ , of all people.

“She doesn’t miss a beat, does she?” Oikawa laments as they head back to Ushijima’s room after stopping at the kitchen to eat. He flops back down on the bed, sighing heavily and letting the warm sun spread over his back.

“No,” Ushijima replies before sitting down beside him. Oikawa gazes up at the ace through full lashes, his hair spread out around his head, kicking out his leg to nudge at Ushijima’s thigh with his toes. It’s something a child would do, an annoyance, like the pinprick bite of an insect; he’s doing it to be a nuisance, but Ushijima’s eyes can’t help but travel up the long, milky length of Oikawa’s leg, from the hard muscle of his calves and outer thighs to the supple, soft skin cresting the apex of his legs. Before he knows it his hand has closed around the setter’s ankle, yanking him down the bed a little bit so those gorgeous, lean legs fall open in surprise.

Ushijima levers himself onto his knees, taking one of Oikawa’s elegant calves into his hands and running his fingers over the skin. Sitting back on his heels, he brings Oikawa’s foot towards his face, touching his lips to the delicate bones of the setter’s ankle. His fingers slide up the arch of Oikawa’s foot, then, and Oikawa shivers rather than giggles in response, noting something vaguely erotic about the way Ushijima’s palm smooths over the elegant curve of his heel.

Lips creep further up the inside of Oikawa’s leg, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin of his inner knee, and by the time Ushijima’s mouth reaches his thigh he’s shivering almost uncontrollably. The ace hooks the long leg over his shoulder, then the other one, until his head is all but sandwiched between Oikawa’s thighs.

It’s not a bad look.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa asks breathlessly as Ushijima begins to push up his shirt, pressing more and more kisses up the taut plane of Oikawa’s stomach. With a violent flutter in his stomach, Oikawa realises that what Ushijima is doing is not _erotic_ , but _appreciative_. He’s not kissing his body because he wants to devour it; he’s kissing it because he appreciates it, each turn and curve and angle.

“To be able to do this,” Ushijima murmurs against Oikawa’s navel as he presses his nose to the skin and breathes in, “to be able to touch you so intimately… to be able to possess the thing I want most in the world…” Golden eyes flick up to Oikawa’s and the setter’s skin rises, nipples pebbling beneath his shirt as blunt fingertips butt against his chest. “I am merely showing my appreciation. Reverence. Oikawa –,” Ushijima straightens up a little so their faces are dipped in close, his hands still pressed firmly to Oikawa’s ribs. His voice is low and quiet and its sincerity makes Oikawa’s bones tremble. “You are faultless in your faults, do you understand? Having you here, now, yielding to my touches – reacting to them – is more than I’ve ever dared hope. Do you understand?” He’s so close Oikawa can feel the words graze his lips. His heart is racing, blood pounding in his ears, and he fears that his breathing will become so rapid that he’ll give himself away.

“What are you trying to say?” he demands, though his voice is little more than a whisper.

There are shadows beneath Ushijima’s eyes from the worry and exhaustion of the last few weeks. “I’m trying to say that I’m in love with you.”

Oikawa feels shrapnel explode inside his chest. It splinters his ribs, shreds his heart, decimates his lungs until he’s practically gasping through his teeth. His skin refuses to stop prickling. His hands refuse to let go of Ushijima’s shirt.

“Well then you’d best make love to me,” Oikawa says as his eyes lower to fix on Ushijima’s lips. “Properly.”

Ushijima tilts his head to the side, reaching out to slide his fingers over the delicate planes of Oikawa’s face. There’s something different in the setter’s eyes, now, something that reminds him of a broken bone, or a torn sheet of paper. It’s in that moment that Ushijima realises that he’s _broken_ him – Oikawa Tōru’s body became his long ago, but it’s only now that his mind has finally crumbled, letting down everything it had so tentatively held up during his stay at Ushijima’s house.

Perhaps Oikawa thinks there’s nothing to worry about, now. Perhaps now that he’s spent time in Ushijima’s home, now that he’s met his mother and his dogs and heard about the rest of his family, he feels safe. Ushijima doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t care, not really. All that matters is that Oikawa is _here_ , spreading his legs willingly, asking Ushijima to _make love_ to him as though he’s some kind of housewife.

Ushijima’s hold has tightened on him. Inexorably. There’s no possible way for him to let go of Oikawa now.

He reaches down to curl his fingers around Oikawa’s throat, gently parting the setter’s long legs and settling his heavy weight between them. He continues his caress on Oikawa’s face, his rough, hard fingers looking so dark and striking against the high, pale cheek. Oikawa hums like an instrument beneath him, a contented thrum – almost a purr – rising from his throat. Hazel eyes are heavy and hooded and dark, and Oikawa’s smirk is quite suddenly pushed against the pad of Ushijima’s thumb, admitting the finger past his lips and into the wet sucking heat of his pretty little mouth.

“I’ll make you sing,” Ushijima promises (or threatens? Nevertheless, the tone of his voice has a shiver of violence that has Oikawa’s skin prickling in response); his fingers tighten slightly around Oikawa’s neck before releasing and plunging under the setter’s loose shirt, making quick work of it as he tears it up over his head, revealing the plush, delicious body beneath him. A fire rises in him, heating his cheeks to a furious blush. He can’t get to Oikawa fast enough, can’t touch him enough, can’t _feel_ him enough – he knows that even if he spent the entire remainder of his life touching Oikawa he still wouldn’t be able to touch him enough.

“Ushiwaka –,” Oikawa gasps as Ushijima shoves his face into the setter’s neck, inhaling deeply as he presses his hands up Oikawa’s sides, gathering his body to his own. Oikawa’s hands plunge into Ushijima’s hair, legs wrapping around his waist as he pulls the ace’s huge body close, pressing himself up against him as much as he can. He wants to burst in to tears – he feels like he should – but the tears won’t come; all he’s left with is an incredible pain in his chest, an incredible, sudden, _unwelcome_ appreciation for the man in his arms. Ushijima Wakatoshi, the person he hates the most in the world, the person he’d always believed to be as complex as a brick, has opened up and exploded before him like a bonfire, spitting sparks and flames and emotion and _love._

All Oikawa had ever seen was that unreadable expression Ushijima always wore. The times he’d seen that split-second fissure of passion in the very throes of a volleyball match – he’d believed his eyes had been tricking him. But now all the overwhelmingly emotional expressions Ushijima had showed him over the last few weeks flash through his mind, all at once, and Oikawa’s breath is knocked clean out of his lungs.

 _Love_. Something Oikawa had never thought Ushijima to be capable of. But now he knows – he knows of the love Ushijima has, so full and complete, his love for the world and for sport and for his mother and his brother –

And for him.

For Oikawa.

“Wakatoshi,” Oikawa breathes as he grips the ace’s face and pulls it back far enough to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say anything else. He just strokes his hands down Ushijima’s warm cheeks and whispers his name over and over again until it doesn’t taste so foreign on his tongue. With each whisper Ushijima’s eyes grow a little heavier, a little sleepier, like a newborn falling asleep in his mother’s arms. His lips part, pressing gently against Oikawa’s cheeks and tender eyelids, sparing Oikawa’s lips merely to hear him speaking. He moans, pressing his burning skin to Oikawa’s and forgetting his resentment and his fear and his jealousy.

He doesn’t need any of that now. Oikawa is here in his arms.

He’s here.

“I’m here,” he purrs deeply in Oikawa’s ear; the setter turns his face to nuzzle at him like a cat, arms wrapping tighter around his neck. “I’ll always be here.”

Oikawa’s arms disappear from around his neck, slipping between them so the setter can wriggle out of the remainder of his clothes. Ushijima quickly follows suit, kicking his pants off his legs and letting his weight collapse on top of Oikawa, who lets out a breathy squeal at the sudden heaviness. The sound is muffled when Ushijima begins kissing his face, though, this time not avoiding his mouth.

Neither of them are particularly sure when their bodies find each other. They can’t recall when Ushijima sunk his cock slowly into Oikawa’s body, when those trembling fingers had so painstakingly put on a condom; time becomes a thing of the past, everything lost in an eternity that does, really, only last for a moment. One second they’re lying cocooned in each other’s arms, the Oikawa’s head is tipping back with a breathy moan and Ushijima is painting the pale skin of his throat with beautiful, dark blooms of burst capillaries. Ushijima’s thrusts are slow, but they’re incredibly deep, and tears spring to Oikawa’s eyes as his jaw goes slack with pleasure.

“Wakatoshi,” he wines, and the name feels so _good_ that he has to say it again and again, louder and louder until Ushijima has to kiss him just to shut him up.

“One day I will,” the ace begins in a cracked, hoarse voice. His eyes are barely open, mere slivers of gold, but they’re still as intense as ever and Oikawa can’t help but shudder under their scrutiny. “One day I _will_ put my child in you. Perhaps not now, perhaps not for a while yet, but one day I will. One day I will make you _mine._ ”

Oikawa whines and shudders again, his fingernails biting painfully into Ushijima’s biceps. He humps his hips up. “Looks like…” his words are interrupted by his gasping breaths. “You’ll be… stuck w-with me ‘till then, huh…?” Oikawa tries his hardest to sneer, but he fails so miserably that he settles for pulling Ushijima into a kiss instead, his entire body fluttering. Ushijima’s hands are firm against his spine, pressing it into an arch.

The sex is hazy. Just like the start, the end is lost in timelessness, the entire thing feeling like one long, slow orgasm. Each pore of skin is risen, each fine follicle of hair bristling against the heat, lips disappearing into an endless expanse of fiery skin; Oikawa likens it to falling asleep, and before he knows it they’re lying in silence, Ushijima’s weight sliding off him and settling on the bed. Oikawa wants to cry; he’s not sure if it’s emotion or despair he’s feeling, but _whatever_ it is has his chest heaving and his skin numb. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

Ushijima’s words still ring in Oikawa’s ears, loud and clear as a bell, and even as they lie in comfortable warmth he’s cold; chills race up and down his spine as he plays the promise over and over again, unwilling to let it fade into memory. _One day I will._

His hand finds Ushijima’s somewhere in the tangle of sheets. He takes it without a word, sliding his clammy palm into the ace’s. A sob leaves him, but it isn’t accompanied by tears. It’s the mere passing of a shuddering breath that brings Ushijima’s other hand to press against his sternum, those firm, dry lips brushing over his cheek.

“Do you promise?” Oikawa breathes, eyes cracking open to fix upon Ushijima’s, whose face hovers above his own. “Promise me. Pinky swear.” He raises their joined hands and, shaking Ushijima’s free, extends his pinky finger. Ushijima gazes at it in confusion for a few moments before realisation clicks, and then he wraps his own pinky around Oikawa’s, pressing a kiss to the setter’s damp temple.

His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. “I promise.”

 

Oikawa lies in stupor after that. He stares at the ceiling – at Ushijima’s ceiling – coming to terms with the tight knot of feelings in his chest, as though everything he’d gone through in the last few weeks has come back to bite him right in the ass, all at once, with no mercy. It’s like watching a silent film flash before his eyes: his utter loathing for Ushijima, the fiery rage inspired deep in his belly whenever he saw him, that familiar cold bitterness that sweeps across his skin – transformed into what? Familiarity? Security? It’s ridiculous, and he knows it. But he can’t help it, either. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s all lost in the confusion like everything else. But what he _does_ know is that Ushijima gives him something nobody has been able to give to him before, regardless of what that _thing_ may be. He remembers Ushijima’s palm stroking over his abdomen and shivers.

Ushijima gets up first. He says nothing, leaving Oikawa to himself, and sets about throwing away the condom and gathering their clothes. He’s the first one to dress, to stretch, and he opens the window to let in a cool easterly breeze that ghosts over Oikawa’s skin. And then he sits on the bed, leaning on one arm, his eyes hooded and lazy as he drags his fingertips up the sharp angle of Oikawa’s side. At one point Oikawa’s hand intercepts his own, bringing it to a pair of soft lips, which place a kiss right in the centre of the palm. Ushijima’s pinky finger flutters against his lips.

_I promise._

Slowly, Oikawa’s eyes open. “So are you going to take me on a date or what?”

Ushijima blinks down at him in confusion, brows furrowing a little.

Exasperated, Oikawa pushes himself into a sitting position, sighing and rolling his eyes. “A _date_ , Ushiwaka-chan. If we’re going to go to nationals, get married, and pop out a few kids, then a date seems like a good place to start, right?”

Instead of acknowledgement – or even solemn agreement, like he’d expected – Oikawa is met by a loud, bell-like laugh that he realises (quite late) is coming from Ushijima. A grin has split across his face, opening the ace’s expression up like the dawn, revealing a glinting line of perfect, white teeth. Ushijima’s hand curls around the back of Oikawa’s neck and he kisses him.

“It does indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw,, he isn't pregnant
> 
>  
> 
> (yet)

**Author's Note:**

> any kudos/comments are very appreciated!!! c:


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